Secrets Part II
by SophiePersan
Summary: Harry & Ruth's story from right after she tells him she can't go to dinner with him again, just exactly as Spooks shows it. But also all the scenes that weren't shown -- the other part of the story that's going on underneath. Harry and Ruth's Secret.
1. Chapter 1

**"SECRETS - PART TWO"**

_**Again, warm hugs and huge thanks to my beta readers: Isa, Sarah and Donna. Thanks for your insight and encouragement.**_

**"**_**Spooks," its characters and scripts are the property of Kudos Film & Television and the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended by the author of this story**_**.**

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**CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX**

The bell rang over the door, and Isabelle glanced up. "Bonjour," she said lightly to the pretty brunette who stepped into the shop. The woman smiled back at her, but not with a true smile. It was a polite smile, what one uses when one wants to appear contented. Isabelle thought that the smile did not fit with the eyes, which had a great sadness to them, and she was drawn by her natural compassion to want to know why.

Instead of turning away and beginning to browse, the woman walked toward Isabelle, with purpose. So, taking her glasses off of her nose, Isabelle focused her attention. She asked the young woman if she needed help with anything, "Est-ce que je peux vous aider?"

"Êtes-vous Isabelle Fontaine?"

"Oui."

The smile again. "Je suis Sophie Persan."

_Ah, so she is here. __And so sad_. "Depuis combien de temps êtes vous à Paris?" Isabelle stopped and repeated, "How long have you been here?" She smiled at her guest, "You are English, yes?"

Ruth smiled back at her, for the first time a real smile of sorts, "Is my accent that bad?"

Isabelle took her hand and patted it, "No, no, your French is wonderful. The English does come through, a bit, yes, but you speak beautifully." She got up from her stool and began to walk around the counter. "I only want to practice my English, so we will speak your language. Do you mind?"

"No, not at all. But I need to practice my French as well, it seems."

"And you will have opportunity enough to do that, my dear." Isabelle beamed a smile. "You live in Paris now, Sophie."

Isabelle was immediately sorry that she had said it. She watched as Sophie's face clouded, became dark, and her eyes glistened suddenly with a profound sadness. _So, she did not leave England by choice, and she left something very precious behind_. But Sophie recovered quickly, Isabelle thought, and the mask was back. There was a deep story here, and perhaps she would trust her enough to tell it someday.

Ruth answered her question, "Four days. I've been here since Thursday."

_And crying for nearly all of it, I'll wager, from the look of those eyes._ Isabelle took her arm, and led her back through a doorway. "Let's make some tea, and we'll talk. We'll hear the bell from the back."

Ruth already liked her. Harry hadn't told her much about Isabelle Fontaine, only that she was a good woman, and Ruth felt that immediately. Isabelle was tall, nearly five-foot-ten, probably late-fifties, although she had childlike eyes with a sparkle in them that spoke of not only contentment, but of joy. Not large, but a substantial woman, imposing, with multicoloured grey hair that ran from steel to snow and was pulled into a long ponytail in the back. She had a sweet lilt to her voice that was charming.

Isabelle sat Ruth down in a soft chair that had seen better days, its grey and blue damask cover worn in spots, the threads distinct, separate. Ruth fell into it, and for the first time since she'd set foot in France, she felt warm and held. Isabelle spoke while she filled the kettle, a sort of ongoing monologue that wasn't in the least irritating, but seemed more of a narration of events, as if she stood outside herself and commented. It sounded to Ruth almost as if she were singing to herself. "So, I think the Earl Grey will make you feel at home, yes?"

The pause let Ruth know that an answer was required, and she looked up and smiled in a way that she hoped would be cheery, but came across more as wistfulness. "Yes, thank you. That would be wonderful."

Isabelle held Ruth's eyes for just a moment longer, and there was such compassion in them that Ruth needed to look down to collect herself. She made a show of straightening her skirt, and just then, the bell rang out in the main shop. Isabelle peeked around the corner, "Un moment," she sang out, and then she looked back at Ruth. "Be comfortable. I will come back, Sophie." And she was gone through the doorway.

Ruth looked around at the back of the shop, and decided at once that she was needed here. There were books everywhere, and stacked in ways that defied any type of category. They seemed simply to have landed where they had fallen, and from there were left to their own devices as they gathered dust, trying valiantly to keep in balance and avoid toppling to the floor. There was a small table with a computer, and it had fared no better. It seemed merely a place to put more books, its keyboard covered now, the screen invisible behind the stacks.

Standing up, Ruth found her way through one of the accessible walkways, trailing a finger here, raising a cover there. Seeing a travel book on Corfu and then passing one on Crete, she put them together on a small open area of the shelf, saying aloud, softly, "Say hello to each other," and she smiled a genuine smile. The kind of smile that said there might be hope of, if not happiness, then at least usefulness, and a way to pass the time that offered some measure of peace.

Another pair showed itself, a book of poetry by Lord Byron and one by John Keats. Then Ruth discovered a volume by Percy Shelley, and there were three in the stack. Rummaging around in the kitchenette, Ruth found an old towel, and now she cleared a shelf and dusted it, beginning her stacks in earnest. French translations, then German, English, Italian.

The kettle decided to boil, so Ruth threw the towel over her shoulder and poured the hot water into the china teapot that Isabelle had set out along with the cups, all decorated in pink roses with the apple green of leaves curling around them. She left the tea to steep and returned to the stacks, anxious to continue.

As she worked, Ruth felt something shift in her, just by a fraction. Another step in acceptance, and she breathed deeply into it. For the last four days she'd felt as if she had truly stepped into someone else's life. She knew that was the aim, being Sophie Persan, but the disconnection of really doing it had left her nearly incapable of rational thought.

The boat ride had taken her from the wide mouth of the Thames and into the sea, around the point, past Ramsgate, to Boulogne-sur-Mer, where a car was waiting. There was a silent drive through Amiens and on into Paris, during which she had dozed fitfully, and then suddenly, she stood on a narrow street across from a strip of park on the Rue du Banquier. She looked down at her one bag and realised that it was the same bag she had packed for Bath, lifetimes ago, and it was really all she owned now.

The sun was beginning to move low in the sky, and Ruth remembered that she had gone through a time change, that it was even one hour later than in London. She and Zaf had shared a scone and coffee on their way to the docks, and Zaf had been thoughtful enough to pack her a sandwich and an apple for the boat ride, but other than that, Ruth hadn't eaten since the Chinese with Harry in the middle of the night before.

_Harry_. Every time she thought of him it hurt, and she thought of him all the time. For some reason, the look on his face as he said, "You take care, yes?" had been playing in an endless loop in her head. A phrase so sweet and formal, but with so much devastation beneath it that he had tried to hide from her. The effort that he made, submerging his own pain for _her_, had touched Ruth deeply. The feel of their final kiss on the dock was still on her mouth, the sensation moving from her lips to the back of her neck and up into her eyes, where the tears would start.

Ruth pushed them down now, looking up at the whitewashed building, the bright red of the geraniums standing out cheerfully in the window boxes above her. She took the key that Harry had given her and moved through the forest-green double doors of number 2, Rue du Banquier. Up in the ancient black wrought-iron lift to the fifth floor, and down the hall to her apartment door, also green, with the black iron number 53.

The front door stepped into a small lounge, furnished with an apple-red sofa and glass table, bright white walls and dark hardwood floors. Two large windows looked out on to the street. On her left was a very small kitchen, with barely enough room for an oven, microwave, fridge and washer, but it was also furnished, right down to the bright red potholders and towels.

Beyond the lounge was a door leading to the ten square metre bedroom that was all but filled with a double bed, a wardrobe and two night tables. The bath, just off the bedroom, was completely tiled in shades of green and cream, with a large shower and a window looking over the courtyard below.

Ruth walked back out to the lounge and sat down on the sofa, her bag still in her hand, and her stomach rumbled, as she remembered her hunger. On a whim, she stood up, went to the kitchen, and opened the refrigerator. She smiled, gratefully taking in the sight of fresh eggs, cheese, butter, apples, lettuce, tomatoes and onions. A bottle of white burgundy lay on its side on the shelf. In the bread keeper was a loaf of fresh sourdough.

Finally taking off her coat, she set about making herself an omelette and toast. Ruth couldn't shake the feeling that she was trespassing somehow, that at any moment the owner of this apartment would walk through the door and ask her to leave. She was so exhausted at this point, she knew that she would eat and then sleep, and was glad of the cosiness of the small space. It didn't feel like hers, but it was a place she could be in some comfort.

Ruth took a plate down from the cupboard, and although she would have liked a cup of tea, she simply didn't have the energy to sort out where things might be. She filled her plate and walked back out to the lounge. Now she saw the small dining table and two chairs that had been hidden from her view as she first walked in. It was pushed up against the wall opposite the sofa, and someone had taken the trouble to put fresh flowers on it.

As Ruth put her plate on the table, she saw that against the vase of flowers was a small card. She picked it up and it had only the words, _Je t'aime_.

Now she let the tears come, and they fell hot and full onto the plate in front of her. She cried until there were no more tears, then she ate because she had to, but tasted nothing. She left the dishes on the table and walked to the bed, undressed and crawled between the clean, white sheets. She fell fast asleep with the small card clutched in her hand.

When Ruth finally woke, it was nearly ten o'clock of the next morning, Friday. She stretched and opened her eyes, and for a moment was completely lost. Then, as understanding dawned, she sighed raggedly and vowed to get on with her life, whatever it might be.

She unpacked her bag, folding Harry's white shirt tenderly into the wardrobe drawer after holding it to her face and breathing deeply of it for a time. She took a long, hot shower, and reconciled herself to the newness of this place and what she must do. When Ruth went back to tidy up the bed, she found the card under her pillow. She set it on the night table where she would see it first thing every morning and last thing each night.

And then she ventured out into her new neighbourhood. There was a small bar and restaurant just down from her apartment, and she found an array of markets, cafes, and a variety of other shops within walking distance. The Metro was only a block-and-a-half walk down the Rue Dumeril, where there was an Indian restaurant, a _Salon de The_ and _Patisserie Orientale._

The one thing Ruth didn't have, but craved, were books, as there were none in the apartment. Although she knew it was ludicrous since she would very soon be working in a bookshop, she looked for one nearby. She wasn't ready to go to _l'Alcove_ just yet.

She found a small shop, and purchased a used paperback of _Northanger Abbey_. It was a promise she had made on the drive back from Bath with Harry. She wanted to read the story again with her new sense of the place, imagining herself in a different way. She hadn't imagined it would be quite this different, as she looked at the cover and read, _Abbaye de Northanger_, but it seemed appropriate somehow that her new imagining would be in a new language as well.

And now, after four days of tears, intermittent desperation, glimmers of hope, the oblivion of much-needed sleep, a cursory Parisian exploration, and an ache for Harry that astonished her daily with its intensity, she stood on the brink of her new life in the back room of _l'Alcove Booksellers_.

By the time Isabelle re-emerged from the doorway, Ruth had made her way though the better part of a quarter of a shelf, and there was the lovely aroma of Earl Grey suffusing the air.

"Je suis désolé, Sophie, people simply do not know what they want … " Isabelle looked at Ruth's face, and beamed. "Ah, you have found a use for your hands, and it has made you truly smile."

Ruth turned to her, and her eyes danced just a bit, clear and open, as she spoke authoritatively, "You need me."

Isabelle laughed. "Yes, my dear, I do. It is precisely what I told your friend James." Isabelle saw Sophie frown, just slightly, before she raised her eyebrows, and said, "Ah, yes, James." But it was enough to see so many things. Of course his name is not James, Isabelle thought. And it suddenly struck her that it was likely that this sad young woman was not named Sophie. But what she saw most clearly was that the mention of his name and the feeling of melancholy were inextricably entwined.

Isabelle took the towel from Ruth and put her arm around her. "Come. Drink tea with me. Those books have stood for longer than I wish to think. They will be satisfied to wait another hour." She looked into Ruth's eyes and said solemnly. "I will not ask you questions. You will tell me whatever you wish to tell me, Sophie." The way Isabelle said her name, Ruth knew she suspected it was not the one she was given at birth.

In just a moment, Ruth was back in the chair with a hot cup of tea. Isabelle put out a matching plate of galettes in front of Ruth and she took one, biting into the sweet crunchiness of the cookie. And then Isabelle sat, looking benevolently at Ruth over the rim of her cup. Ruth found herself smiling again. She spoke softly to Isabelle. "I like it here. May I call you Isabelle?" To the older woman's vigorous nod, Ruth repeated, "I like it here, Isabelle."

"I am very glad of that, Sophie."

Ruth knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't seem to help herself. She longed for news of Harry. "You said you spoke to my friend. James?"

Isabelle smiled warmly. "Yes, he asked if I could find a place for you here. He said you could do everything well, that you were very bright, and that you loved books." She took another sip of her tea. "I told him I couldn't wish for a better companion." She laughed softly as she looked around. "And I think as you so suitably put it, I need you."

Ruth tried to appear nonchalant. She raised her eyebrows and attempted another smile at Isabelle. "And ... what else did he say?" Ruth thought Isabelle's eyes were beautiful, hazel but with silver flecks, as if they were fine, polished stones.

Tilting her head, Isabelle said very softly, "He told me I should take care of you, Sophie. _Qu'a-t-il dit_? Ah, yes, he said I should take you under my wing." Isabelle reached forward and patted Ruth's hand. "I think he cares for you very much, Sophie." She stayed there, leaning forward, and held Ruth's eyes with great intensity. "But you already know that, don't you, dear? That he cares for you?"

It was too much. Isabelle's kindness unlocked the tears that Ruth had so meticulously hidden before she walked out of her door this morning. Before Ruth knew it, one had slipped noiselessly down her cheek, and then another. Quickly, Isabelle had found a tissue and was dabbing at Ruth's cheeks. "Oh, Sophie, dear. _Non, ne pleurez pas_. Don't cry."

And all Ruth could think was, _some bloody spook_. My first real day as Sophie Persan, and I have already as good as given up my biggest secret.

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN**

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Scarlet clearly had a job to do, and she was taking it very seriously. Her walks were, for her, a time of very stern business. Every bush must be checked, every suspicious smell authorized. If only her tail could cease its cheerful wagging, people would know how important her job was.

Today, Harry let her have her way. He usually spent their walks saying, "C'mon, girl!" to her as he tugged gently at her leash, but today he found himself lost, a bit. In fact, Scarlet had managed to satisfy herself that an entire row of hedges was safe to pass, and then she had simply sat herself down, peering up at him, puzzled, waiting for him to move to the next one.

Harry had always spent an uncommon amount of time in his thoughts, but it seemed to be increasing lately. Scarlet waited, her little pink tongue curled up in her mouth, her breath coming in short bursts, but her eyes firmly on him. Harry was standing, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance, thinking.

_Another officer lost_. One who had sat in Ruth's chair for only a few days. He hadn't liked Sally much, but he hadn't had time to separate out how much of it was the wretchedness he felt at not seeing Ruth's radiant face at that desk, and how much of it was simply Sally's way of working. In any case, it didn't matter now, Harry thought sadly. Another life gone.

And Harry's first thought had been that it might have been Ruth. That Neil Sternin might have targeted his Ruth if she had been the one sitting in that chair. But his second thought was that she would have been too smart to fall for it, would have come to him and told him what Sternin was doing and it all would have been over sooner. And his third thought was, well, the same as his fourth and fifth and every one after it. _My Ruth_. Harry felt as if a whole part of him had been mislaid. In fact, he felt nearly as paralysed as Juliet, his brain functioning on autopilot, making decisions as it always had, but the rest of him numb, lifeless, vacant, poured out.

On the dock nine days ago, he'd watched Ruth's boat until it disappeared. Then for some time after he could no longer see it, he had simply watched the lapping of the grey water, his gloved hands moving ineffectually at his sides as if they had frozen solid and he was trying to restore them to feeling. Harry found himself unwilling to move toward the car, to step into the next stage, because a part of her was still there with him. He knew that as soon as he left the dock, it would be real, and he would have to face the inevitability of her absence.

And then the funeral, at which he had truly grieved, his heart throbbing not only for Ruth, but for the nameless woman who made Ruth's departure possible. When he was told to bow his head, it was her forgiveness he had asked. It was the first time he had refused a request to speak at the funeral of one of his officers. It simply wasn't a possibility.

Instead, he sat with Adam on one side and Malcolm on the other, as the minister spoke of Ruth's friends and colleagues from the Department for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, and he struggled in vain to banish the image of her in Bath, her eyes shining, the soft light playing off of the silk of her skin.

On occasion in his work, Harry had spoken to people addicted to drugs, although he'd never gone in for that sort of thing himself. Scotch tended to mellow the body, rather than energise it, but he understood from talking with enough of them that the high of many drugs resembled somewhat how he had felt for the weeks leading up to that cold morning at the docks. The euphoria, the heightened sense of self, the wonder of new emotions, the unbridled and unselfconscious connection to another.

These were not the ways that Harry was conditioned to interact in the world. Events had thrown him into that state, and now diametrically opposed events had thrust him from it. He was somewhat dizzy, disoriented, and at present, after the rush of Ruth's departure and their last few days of grasping for whatever they could have to remember of each other, Harry was breathing deeply, trying to get his bearings.

What he knew beyond all else was that he was without her, in withdrawal as it were, and he felt acutely each of the moments that made up a day. Not just one moment of missing her, but a series of instants, folding and refolding on top of each other. Each second wanting her, every time denying himself, and because the need was never fulfilled, it never went away. And the continuous process of pushing those moments down, of self-control and self-denial, was interminably exhausting.

He knew where she was. A little more than two hours away. He had mapped out the route a thousand times in his head, had imagined just going to St. Pancras, boarding the Eurostar, arriving at the Gare du Nord in Paris, then a taxi. Such an easy thing to do, and the need would be satisfied.

But Harry knew he was being watched, he could feel their eyes everywhere. Mace had been cut off at the knees by the Cotterdam scandal, but Harry knew better than to believe he was truly gone. In the same way that Harry had his loyal officers, as everyone on the Grid had been when Harry had been fired by Juliet, Mace had his henchmen. Not officially, but they were there, under the radar. Oliver had been humiliated, and Harry wasn't fool enough to think he had seen the last of him.

Even now, as he stood with Scarlet, he could see the car across the street, meant to be inconspicuous, but to Harry, patently obvious. He would have done the same, if he were Mace. The drowning was too tidy, too convenient, and Oliver's sceptical eyebrow would have raised in question at the news. So in his strong moments, Harry made himself promise that he would bide his time and keep Ruth safe.

In his weak moments, his heart felt as if it would leap from his body, and he lost touch with what was right or wrong. He knew only that he craved her. Her soft skin, the smell of lavender, the music of her laughter, the brightness of her mind. He had taken to crossing days off the calendar as he would on a prison wall, as if he were scratching the marks with a sharp piece of rock, obliterating them from his consciousness. And he realised that he was willing his life to pass, asking it to blur by him until whatever unknown day had arrived from the future, the day he could hold her again.

But of course Harry Pearce continued to do his job, and to do it well. That, after all, had been the reason for Ruth's sacrifice. Only those closest to him could see the alteration, the moments when his eyes went flat, like death had overtaken them, or they were peering into a past that no one else could see. Harry had always been masterful at self-control, but only he, himself, knew how much more of it was needed since the day Ruth left. Only Harry knew how close to the edge he truly was.

This week they had overcome the takeover of the Saudi Embassy. They'd lost Sally, and they'd almost lost Ros, but a worse terror was averted, and Harry was grateful for four more days gone by. He managed, when he was on the Grid, to focus his energies and his wits toward solving problems, but God help him when the crisis was over. Ruth was always waiting, patiently, relentlessly, on the periphery. When the space opened up again, she flooded back in to him, drowning him, taking him with her into an abyss of memories.

He'd tried just spending the night working, staying later and later, but his eyes always drifted to her desk, now empty again, dark, cold, and prone to visions. Harry thought he was losing his mind at one point, as her image, more real than the hologram of dreams, appeared. A trick of the light, perhaps, but he had walked out to the Grid later that night, completely alone, to be certain there wasn't some residual energy, a fragment of her that she had left behind. And then, he'd sat in her chair, as she had once sat at his, and he laid his head on her desk, hoping to feel her somewhere on its cool surface.

What stung the most was that she had done it for him. So through it all was the effort to clear her. When other matters on the Grid didn't require his immediate attention, he worked his way through every avenue, every possible person who could be Fox. He kept up daily with news of Oliver Mace, watching his rapid slide from power. Harry got his hands on every piece of information he could, poring over meeting minutes, JIC and otherwise, whatever he managed to procure. Zaf and Malcolm were both tasked to keep him informed of any chatter that was even remotely connected to Cotterdam, or Acts of Truth, or Mace's people.

It was slow going, but Harry lived for the day that he would simply show up on her doorstep, take her in his arms, and tell her she could come home. And he hoped that the home she would come to, where Phoebe and Fidget could now generally be found sleeping warmly curled together on the window seat, would be his.

Harry felt a tug on his hand, and looked down. Scarlet's head tilted to the left, her concern evident. He bent and gave her a scratch behind the ears. "Sorry, girl. Not all here, am I?" Harry stood, and resumed his walk to the news agent to pick up his _Times_. It was Saturday, two weeks since they'd been together in Bath, nine days crossed off the calendar. Today was one more day to get through, one more hour to remember to breathe, one more minute to simply put one foot in front of the other.

* * *

Ruth had managed to uncover the desk, chair and computer, and had removed some of the dust from the room, letting fresh air in through the windows. She was completely absorbed with her task, and powerfully grateful for it. Twelve days without Harry, without England, without the Grid, and the pain had retreated enough so that she could take a deep breath without always adding a sigh at the finish.

She'd been finding a balance of what she felt she could and could not do. What would or would not draw attention to her. She watched people's eyes, felt for movements behind her as she followed her path from her apartment to the Metro, to the shop, stopping for coffee, a quick trip for groceries, then back home. Ruth was beginning to relax a bit. She seemed safe and undiscovered for the present.

She hadn't been able to keep herself from the _Times_, which she studied front to back each morning. She'd read about the takeover at the Saudi Embassy, knowing that the neat wrap-up on page three was only part of the story. She stood on the outside now, with the bankers and the shopgirls, the members of the public, and Ruth dissected the article, word by word, trying to find Harry there. As she ran her fingertips across the words, _successful conclusion, assistance of the Security Services, crisis averted_, it was as if she were running her fingers across his cheeks, his lips, feeling him say the words.

Ruth closed her eyes and saw him on the Grid, the high level of alert, the decisions he must have made. She wondered if anyone had been hurt or died, Zaf, Adam, Jo, Ros. And she knew it wouldn't be in the paper. And then, for an instant of horror, she thought, _What if ... what if Harry … what if Harry was the part of the story that they weren't telling._ And as the adrenaline coursed through her body, she told herself to stop. _Now_. _You will lose your mind if you do this_.

But the helplessness of not knowing wouldn't leave her, and a seed was sown. _I need to find a way to know or I will go mad_. Not to talk to Harry, although she longed for it, but to know he was all right. Just a touch in the dark, to feel him there, real, substantial. Second hand, third hand, she didn't care, she had to know. So Ruth's expert analyst's mind worked on the challenge, like a computer running a background program. Through every conversation with Isabelle, every step on the street, every ride on the Metro, from the moment she awoke until she finally drifted off to sleep.

And now she had an idea. She sat in the newly polished wooden chair, arranged her notebook and pens, and pressed the button to boot up the computer. Isabelle's son had set it up for her, hoping in vain to bring his mother into the computer age, but lacking the time to give her a proper education. And as Ruth waited for the screen to come alive, she thought about the conversation she'd had with Isabelle yesterday.

"You have some rare first editions here, did you know that?" Ruth was holding a Moroccan leather volume, with gilt on the spine and raised bands, and the title _Iconografia de Orchidaceas do Brasil_. "How would you price this, Isabelle?" She handed the book with botanical depictions of hundreds of species of orchids to her, and Isabelle took it, running her hands over its cover, opening it to the lovely colour plates inside. Isabelle shrugged, and raised her eyebrows at Ruth.

"Well, my dear, no one has asked for it, so I'm not certain what I might say. Twenty-five, perhaps? I would ask them, I suppose, how much they desire it." At this, she smiled openly, in the way that always made Ruth smile.

Ruth took the book back from her. "Isabelle. This is a first edition from 1949. It's worth well over a hundred pounds." Ruth calculated quickly in her head, "Almost 140 Euros. And this one," she held up another leather-bound volume, _Napoleon I et Sons Temps, Histoire Militaire_. "The same." Ruth swept her hand, indicating the full room with its stacks of books. "I've only sorted through a fraction of these, and who knows how many more there are. You have some rare books, Isabelle."

Isabelle smiled at her and shook her head. "Oh, my dear, all books are rare to me. I have what I have, I am a bookshop, yes?" She ran her fingers through the dust on an untouched stack. "The problem is finding them when I need them, and you are a blessed help in that."

Ruth continued, undeterred. "You could use the money, I think? If I could sell some of these for you? Not at the prices you're charging, but at their actual value?"

"I would not lie to you and say money is not welcome. Times are not the best, and some see books as a luxury. Of course, I disagree." She pointed with disdain at the computer, "And that thing, mon Dieu, some read books on it? How can you read without the feel of the pages, the smell of the paper in your hand?"

Ruth laughed. "Well, that _thing_, Isabelle, could make your life easier, and I can help you." She looked affectionately at the older woman. "Will you trust me?"

Isabelle had laughed as well, whilst looking at the computer as if it might rise up and bite her, "Oh, my dear, as long as you won't ask me to touch it, yes, of course, I trust you."

As she waited for the computer to finish booting up, Ruth put her left hand up to her necklace. She now knew exactly where the charms were, and unconsciously, her fingers moved there to separate and hold the delicate pieces of silver, moving them away from each other and then together again.

The screen came to life, and Ruth smiled. So she had not only the basics, but internet access as well, which Isabelle must have been paying for all this time without a clue as to what it was. Ruth paused, her fingers on the keyboard. How many times had she watched and learned as Malcolm created false websites? She had even created some herself. But now, Ruth created a real one, a website for _l'Alcove Booksellers_, offering rare and old editions.

And of course, this website required a mailing list, which consisted of Isabelle's haphazardly hand-written records of her sales, kept in numerous small file boxes in some semblance of alphabetical order.

There was one addition, however. One person who had never purchased a book from _l'Alcove_. A certain Martin Wingate. The name would be a mystery to Isabelle, and to anyone else who might see it. But Ruth knew that name well. It was a name Malcolm had used often. Martin Wingate owned a secure email address, untraceable, that Malcolm checked often on the Grid.

So, after finishing the website, Ruth began the painstaking process of creating the mailing list, but she did it with great joy, because through it all, there was Harry. Every character she typed, she was writing to him, as if she were building a bridge across the water that separated them. And when she reached the end of the alphabet, and typed in Martin Wingate's name, she felt Harry's arms around her, his kisses soft at her neck.

In fact, she took herself back for a moment, eyes closed, to the place she said she would never forget. The night at Havensworth, with the moonlight tracing patterns on the floor and Harry curled warm behind her. And as she began the letter she would send from Isabelle to each of her customers, she was writing not to the hundreds of recipients, but to just one. "My dear friend, I am very excited to announce a new way to communicate with you ... "

* * *

Harry took the pen from his top drawer, the red one, and performed his daily ritual, crossing off the date on the calendar. Eighteen days. He peered through the glass again, as he did every day. Empty, still. First Ruth, then Sally, and now it seemed cursed, that chair, so no effort had been made to fill it. He spoke to Ruth in his head, as he did so often now.

_I missed you today. Asked a simple question, got a simple answer, which was never the case when you were here, my love. Who are the Sons of Phineas? You would have known. Instead, I got what I could have gotten myself off Google. Looked for analysis and got a roomful of blank stares. I missed you today. What an inadequate phrase. Might just as well say I missed oxygen today._

There was a knock, and Harry looked up to see Malcolm standing in his doorway. "A minute, Harry?"

Harry closed the file he wasn't reading anyway, and leant back in his chair. "Absolutely. Come in, Malcolm." Harry welcomed the intrusion, and he was curious, because Malcolm seldom came to his office. He was holding a piece of paper in his hand, which he placed in front of Harry before sitting uncomfortably straight-backed on one of the chairs set up against the glass.

"Yes?" Harry said it before he actually looked at the paper. Once he did look, he knew he needn't ask why Malcolm had brought it to him. Malcolm had a somewhat smug look on his face, the one he wore when he had the answer to a particularly sticky problem. His eyebrows were raised as he watched his old friend lose his composure. After seeing Harry mope around for the better part of three weeks, Malcolm thought, highly amused, _Well, that's got his attention. _

Harry looked up at Malcolm, and his mouth opened, then closed again. He stood and walked to the door, closing it. He doubted very strongly that his office was being monitored by any of Mace's people, but where Ruth was concerned he conducted his business as if it were. Now he spoke to Malcolm, his voice even, measured. "And the gentleman here?"

Malcolm answered, just the hint of a smile curling one side of his mouth, "Is me."

"And that was known by the sender?" Harry's heart was beating a bit faster now.

"Without question."

"This is secure?"

"Utterly."

"It can be answered safely?"

"I can guarantee it from this end, yes."

Harry broke into a smile that Malcolm thought might have taken his old friend unaware, because he quickly subdued it. "Thank you, Malcolm. I appreciate your having brought this to me. I will formulate an appropriate reply and get it to you within the hour." Malcolm stood, and Harry impulsively took his hand in both of his and shook it, vigorously.

After a surprised start at the unusual contact, Malcolm managed to gently extricate his hand. "You're most welcome, Harry." Malcolm smiled genuinely at him, and remembering a favourite verse, spoke slowly, deliberately, "It will find out the way."

Harry knew the poem.

_Over the mountains and over the waves, _

_Under the fountains and under the graves, _

_Under floods that are deepest which Neptune obey, _

_Over rocks that are steepest, Love will find out the way._

Still at the door, Harry watched his friend walk down the hallway and laughed, softly, his heart expanding in his chest. _Yes, she would find a way, wouldn't she? Dear God, Ruth, is any institution safe from you? I'd like to think not._

He walked back to his desk and felt light, as if he had been living in a stiflingly tight space and now strode into the air. The piece of paper was still in his hands, more precious than anything he could imagine. It was a way to her, a means of easing his restlessness, a manner of knowing she was safe, a medium in which he could tell her he loved her still, and would always.

An hour later, Harry stood behind Malcolm as he pressed "send," and a thrill went through him. As if he was touching her again somehow, across the miles. Harry exhaled and narrowed his eyes, willing the unending love he felt to go with it.

_RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence_

_To Whom It May Concern:_

_Thank you for the very welcome information regarding your new website. To say it was received with gratitude would be an understatement. I believe I will be taking full advantage of your expertise in the area of fine and rare books, and you should expect to hear from me on a very regular basis._

_I have also passed your information on to an associate, a Mr. William Arden, who is currently immersed in a study of Romanticism, although he also has recently developed a strong interest in Atlanticism. He is unable to access the internet, and will therefore correspond with you by way of this email address._

_Again, it is very gratifying to know that we are in contact with as resourceful a person as yourself. I have had some experience with the construction of websites, and I must say, I am very impressed with the results of your efforts._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Martin Wingate_


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT**

* * *

_It worked_.

Ruth held her hands to her mouth and managed to suppress the shout that almost escaped, knowing that Isabelle would come running from the front of the shop to find out what was the matter. Instead, Ruth contained herself and read the email over and over again with shining eyes and a joyfully rising heart. She dearly loved the magnificent, sublime, fictional Martin Wingate more than she could express.

She did allow herself a muffled, giddy laugh at the Romanticism and Atlanticism references, and at the name William Arden. Harry's sense of humour was still intact, at the least. She doubted that he had shared with Malcolm the details of that gentleman's check-in at the Windsor Guest House in Bath, but honestly, Ruth just couldn't give a fig anymore.

She felt the same elation coming from Harry's words. They nearly leapt off the page at her. They were such small things, these few words, but Ruth knew what they meant. The bridge she had built was holding, safe and firm, across the channel. And now she wanted to tell him everything, all about her life in Paris, her apartment, Isabelle, her job, the _Patisserie Orientale_, the Metro, La Place des Vosges. All of the new places and things she had seen became the subjects of potential conversations with Harry, which made them infinitely more cheerful than they were just one short minute ago.

Ruth closed her eyes and breathed deeply, feeling a calm descend on her that she hadn't felt since Bath. This was a way to touch Harry, but it was also more, a way to touch her past, who she was. Like a road map from there to here, it was the correlation she was missing in this new life. It was what she was asking for on that forbidding morning with Zaf on the dock. Recognition. Acknowledgement. Ruth suddenly felt herself become solid again, as if she had been ephemeral, somehow transparent during these days in Paris.

The bell in the front of the bookshop rang a number of times in quick succession. It was Monday, and the shop was typically busy. She read the three paragraphs again quickly, trying to commit them to memory. Then she saved the message, saying a quiet "Thank you, Malcolm," to the screen before closing it down. Ruth got up and walked out to help Isabelle.

It turned out to be a very busy day, and she wasn't able to get back to the computer until almost six. Ruth always automatically subtracted an hour from the clock as she looked at it. She still felt herself on London time, as one tends to do on holiday. So it was five, and although she knew the Grid never ran on bankers' hours, she worried that she might not get back to Harry and Malcolm in time today, so Ruth quickly wrote an email to send off.

_Dear Mr. Wingate,_

_I was very gratified to receive your response. Although email can be a somewhat sterile way to communicate, I find myself especially glad that it allows us to connect with each other, don't you agree? L'Alcove has quite an extensive selection of books. If there's anything you don't see on the website, please let me know, and I'll do my best to find it._

_On a personal note, I have a great passion for both Romanticism and Atlanticism, so it seems Mr. Arden and I may have some feelings in common. I would welcome a correspondence with him on those subjects, although he should be warned that I've been known to express my opinion rather freely. In fact, a very dear friend once told me that I'm a bit of a mule at times. I hold out hope that will not deter your associate from writing to me. I'm new to Paris, and would look forward to the diversion of a bit of literary back and forth._

_I'll keep this short as I wish to reply to your very welcome note as soon as possible. Please pass on my most heartfelt thanks to Mr. Arden for his interest. He can't imagine how it has brightened my day to know that another feels as I do._

_My best wishes,_

_Mlle. Sophie Persan_

_L'Alcove Booksellers_

Ruth read it over quickly again, and decided it had the right combination of the necessary formality and personal undertone, and she clicked "send." Last time, she had sent a quest out into the air, unknowing. This time, it was sent directly to Harry, and another fragment of acceptance fell into place. The desperation she felt at not knowing where he was and whether he was safe was easing now. She knew if anything happened, Malcolm would let her know.

And what an exquisite luxury to be able to write to Harry! It was more than she could have imagined as she said goodbye, more than she had dared hope, even as she wrote to Malcolm. Ruth recognised that there was an inherent danger in this connection, but she also knew that Harry would never have answered if he didn't feel confident that the level of danger was low.

Sighing deeply, Ruth smiled and closed her eyes. In her mind, she flew across the channel, over the water, taking the reverse of the journey she had taken eighteen days ago. She saw her beloved Harry at his desk, frowning over some nagging problem, his fingers splayed and pressing into his forehead, his mouth pursed in thought.

She imagined herself walking up behind him, leaning down quietly, and putting her arms around his neck. His hands would move up to her, and he would want to turn around, but she would hold him there, her lips next to his ear, and she would whisper, "I love you." He would relax in an exhale and lean into her, saying, "Mmmm, I love you too."

And Ruth knew that if they were able to do that right now, the whole world could be watching outside the fishbowl of his office and she and Harry wouldn't give it a second thought.

Why had it had been so important to her not to be talked about? How silly it all seemed in retrospect. Ruth shook her head, sighing. _Good God, what are they saying now? Well, that I'm dead, for one thing, thrown myself off a bridge or some such, after killing a man. Bit of a step up from simple gossip, yes, Ruth ... ?_

"That is what you would call a ... rueful smile? Is that the correct word, Sophie?" Ruth looked up with a jolt, and saw Isabelle standing in the doorway, amused.

Ruth laughed softly, "Yes, I believe rueful would be exactly the right word."

Isabelle walked over to the chair in the kitchen and sat down, grateful to be off her feet. She was still looking at Ruth and smiling. "Which is surprising to me, my dear, because you have had a new lightness in you today, as if something good has happened." She slipped off her shoes and pulled her legs under her on the chair. "Do I imagine it?"

"No, you're psychic, as usual. Sometimes I believe we share the same brain, my dear Isabelle." Ruth tilted her head at her new friend. "But will you mind terribly if I keep the reason to myself?"

"_Ce n'est pas un problème_." Isabelle smiled at her warmly. "I don't need to know, my dear. It is enough to see you happy."

Ruth looked at her in thanks, and thought to change the subject. "The website is doing well."

Isabelle simply shook her head in wonder. "If you say so, that is good. I appreciate that you are, as my son says, dragging me into this century."

Ruth laughed again. "Well, I hope not painfully, Isabelle. But it will help the business. You'll see." Ruth stood. "Would you like some tea?" She moved toward the kitchenette.

"Ah, yes, delicious." Isabelle turned in the chair to face Ruth as she moved about and filled the kettle.

Ruth realised that this new contact with Harry had freed something up in her, something that had been held tightly in control, just on the edge of spilling over. She turned her back to Isabelle to concentrate on the tea, and then took a deep breath. Ruth sensed now that she could ask Isabelle a question without giving away too many of her own feelings. Isabelle's sweet and compassionate nature, not to mention her unusual perception, had the effect of making Ruth want to tell her everything, so she had been very careful up to now.

"Isabelle?" She spoke with her back still turned. "I know it's not quite fair that I tell you nothing, but do you mind if I ask you something?" Now Ruth turned and looked at her, and she nodded her assent with a smile. "How do you know James?"

Isabelle's eyebrows raised, and she took a deep breath, but she still wore an enigmatic smile. "Ah, yes, a long time ago, it seems now." She watched for a moment as Ruth turned back to the tea. "Well, my dear, you have your secrets, and so do I, but I will tell you some of it." Ruth turned quickly back to her, and as soon as she satisfied herself that Isabelle didn't mind her asking, she began to fill the china pot again.

Isabelle sighed softly. "My husband, Pierre, died three years ago and two months, he was quite a bit older than I. When we met, we were both _idéalistes_, very rebellious, and I was very young. He came by it through his family, his father was a leader in the Resistance. I came by it through love for him."

Taking the cup Ruth offered her, Isabelle paused for a moment. "He had a great sympathy for the Irish, for their liberation, and we became connected to some people who were ... _tres en colere_, very angry. We found ourselves in over our heads, and your James … " Ruth started and looked up. Isabelle smiled sadly at her, pausing and saying the word deliberately, "Yes, Sophie, _your_ James. He helped us. He saved us, truly. I will never forget him. He said he saw the good in us … erm, how can I say … _que nous avions un ideal certes, mais que nous n'étions pas comme eux_."

Ruth thought a moment, and then translated for her. "Yes, that you were idealistic, but not like them, not angry."

Isabelle nodded, "Exactly. He kept us from prison."

Ruth was silent, primarily because she didn't trust herself to speak. She poured out the tea, and then busied herself with a bite of cake while she gained composure. Finally, her emotions checked, Ruth said, simply, "He's a good man."

Isabelle held Ruth's eyes with hers. "He is the best kind of man." She took a sip of tea and looked at Ruth over the cup. "My dear, I do not know why you are separated, but I know that neither of you wants it to be so, and I must conclude that you are swept up in something, erm … out of control."

Ruth's eyes began to mist, and her urge was to move over to Isabelle and put her head in her lap for a proper cry. But she found her reserve of steel, and blinked the tears back. Instead, she put her cup down and took Isabelle's hands, with their light tracing of blue veins, in hers. "Isabelle, I wish I could ..."

Isabelle squeezed Ruth's hands and shook her head, pursing her lips, "Shh, no. I understand secrecy, Sophie. It can mean safety. I want nothing to happen to you. I care for you already, and I am in debt to James. I know all I need to know of you."

Patting her hands, Isabelle smiled. "True love cannot be held down, my dear. It will rise up and be heard." Isabelle reached over again for her cup and leant back in the damask chair. She had a distant look in her eyes, and seemed to be focused on something invisible, just above Ruth's head. "Pierre and I were separated for nearly a year during that time. Seven smuggled notes, two stolen passionate meetings. But we never wanted another person, and always knew it would be over one day. That we would be together."

Ruth realised she wasn't breathing, and suddenly her lungs filled of their own accord and she sighed. What she had just remembered was something she'd heard once, _Every person you meet has a story that can break your heart_. Ruth was filled with compassion for Isabelle and her Pierre, and she was also aware of how lucky she was. Eighteen days, and already a letter. _Nearly a year_. She could hardly bring herself to think about it.

She wanted so much to be honest with Isabelle, but it would be too dangerous for both of them. And, in truth, she realised that specifics weren't really necessary. What they were talking about was universal, the broad concept of two people who loved each other deeply, moving through obstacles. Ruth smiled at her new friend, and said softly, "You're helping me very much, Isabelle. Thank you."

Isabelle smiled. "For that I am glad." They had a moment of silence as each sipped at her tea. Then Isabelle narrowed her eyes and looked warily at the computer. "And I have decided that I must understand that_ ... machine_, so I must ask for your help, as well." She put her cup down and stood up, taking a deep breath. "You will be swept off your feet and carried away from me someday, and I will be left alone with _this_ ... " Isabelle walked over and sat down in the wooden chair.

Ruth laughed and raised her eyebrows. "That's very brave, Isabelle." She moved behind the chair and put her hands on the older woman's shoulders. Leaning down to whisper to her, she said, "You might find you like it."

Isabelle put a hand over Ruth's on her shoulder. "Well, my dear, the one thing I've learned in life is that anything is possible, no matter how impossible it looks to be. Will you teach me?" She looked up at Ruth and smiled.

Ruth pulled up a chair and said, "It would be my pleasure."

* * *

Harry wondered if anyone had noticed. His computer screen, for as long as anyone could remember, had been turned to face the door. It was always visible as a blue glow from the Grid, no matter what he was working on. But now it was turned, just slightly, as Harry typed, and anyone looking in could only see his head, from the eyes up, above the back of the screen. Harry was deep in thought and typing at the keyboard, not just a keystroke here or there to pull up a report, but typing, and composing something fairly long. Not unheard of, but definitely unusual.

If they had been extraordinarily observant, they would have seen just the whisper of a smile as he read it over from the screen, as if he shared a small, secret joke with the recipient. And if they looked closely at his eyes, they would have seen a softness there that had been missing for twenty-two days.

If they could actually read what he had written, they would have to conclude that Harry Pearce had acquired a pen pal. A woman, in Paris, and something to do with books. They might wonder who Mr. Wingate was, and who the Parisian woman was, but it's likely they wouldn't assume Harry was writing to someone they believed they had buried only a little less than three weeks ago.

Two of the three on the Grid who would even know that was a possibility were Adam and Zaf. And the only one who would know for sure was Malcolm.

_Dear Mlle. Persan,_

_My good friend Mr. Wingate has done me the great favour of giving me your email address, so I hope you won't mind if I write directly to you. Your recent note to him suggests you may be open to a correspondence of ideas rather than one that concerns simply the procurement of books._

_As it happens, I have some time on my hands these days, more than is usual, and a recent loss has opened me up to thoughts and feelings that seem to want expression. As you are in new circumstances there in Paris, you may not be up to the full measure of those thoughts. I have no desire to depress a newly-made friend, or to make your life more difficult as a result of listening to my woes, so please let me know if that is not your intention. If you desire that this correspondence stay on a strictly literary level, I will honour your wishes, and simply be content to check in now and again. You will set the tone by the type of letter you send back to me, and I will follow your lead._

_Whatever you decide, I agree that it is very good indeed to know that another shares my feelings, and that this avenue is open. That's enough for now._

_And as for your being a mule? Please remember it's only an expression. Perhaps the one who called you that was a bit fixated at the time._

_Faithfully yours,_

_Mr. William Arden_

Harry read the letter again. He wanted to be sure he let her know that she was the one setting the rules for this correspondence. He couldn't tell how strong she was, and he didn't want to make this any harder on her. If writing about books would ease the pain in her heart, he would write about books. _Christ, I'll write about the bloody weather so long as I can write to Ruth about it._

He transferred the file to the memory stick to give to Malcolm, and then erased it from his hard drive. He'd managed to wait four days before replying, but it had taken a significant amount of willpower. Harry wanted to write to her every day, all day. He was hungry for her, but the more they wrote, the higher the risk. This needed to be a tentative, slightly hesitant relationship between Mr. Arden and Mlle. Persan. _Self-control, Harry_.

Walking back from Malcolm's station, Harry thought about his meeting today with David Newman, Bishop of Whitechapel. Newman, a man for whom Harry had the utmost respect, senior clergyman, friend of the Prime Minister, giving the order to assassinate Khalid Mansoor. What had David said? "I just wanted to defend my country." To which Harry had replied, "That's my job, and I'm better at it."

Harry stepped back in to his office and sat down. Putting his hands behind his head, he leant back and surveyed the Grid. He wanted to talk to her, to watch the folds in her forehead, find out what she thought about all this. Bishop Newman was someone that Harry thought of as inherently good, and his treachery made Harry feel that he was no longer surprised by mankind, as if anyone could now turn and embrace the darkness. What would Ruth say? He wanted to know.

He hoped she would write back and tell William Arden that he was free to open his heart to her, that no philosophical question was out of bounds, no exploration of the twin extremes of good and evil was forbidden. Harry hoped she felt strong enough, because he needed her. His external conscience, his bellwether, his Ruth.

David Newman had crossed the line, but instead of condemning him, Harry had sent him off to Africa to do missionary work, saying it would be a waste of his passion to lock him away. Harry thought Ruth would have liked that. Actually, he thought that was what she would have done.

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE**

* * *

Every day, Ruth checked _l'Alcove's_ email, often with Isabelle close at her shoulder, eyes wide. The volume of mail was increasing daily with the warm wishes of Isabelle's friends and customers, and in turn, Ruth's already high regard for Isabelle increased daily as she saw how very loved she was. Most of the letters expressed some air of amazement that Isabelle had found her way to the computer, and the two women sat reading them together, laughing, as Isabelle told story after story about the writers.

Of course, Ruth looked anxiously for a return letter from Malcolm, and after three days, she reconciled herself to the fact that Harry had more sense than she did, and was biding his time in exactly the way Mr. William Arden would. Maybe this would be a weekly correspondence that she could look forward to every Monday morning. Or maybe every two weeks? She hoped it wasn't to be monthly, as she wanted so much more. She felt adolescent, impatient, as if she were waiting for a note to be passed surreptitiously from an adored boy in school, complete with sweaty palms and fluttering heart.

At the same time, Isabelle was acquiring a steadily growing comfort in front of the computer screen. Finally, Ruth was able to convince her to take the mouse under her own hand and begin to click her way through the correspondence herself, which gave Isabelle much joy. In fact, this morning, Friday, Isabelle sat alone at the wooden chair while Ruth assembled tea and cakes.

"Hmmmmm." Isabelle frowned at the screen, and Ruth turned, expecting she had lost her way somehow.

"Problem?" Ruth asked.

"No, it is just that this name is not familiar. Martin Wingate?" Isabelle turned just in time to see Ruth nearly lose her grasp on the china teapot. Ruth laughed nervously, incongruously, her cheeks suddenly taking on a crimson tone, her eyes dancing. Isabelle's head tilted in a question, and she raised her eyebrows as she smiled. "You know who this is?"

Ruth took a breath and steadied the pot in her hands. She held Isabelle's eyes for a moment, debating, and finally just came out with it. "A friend of James."

Isabelle's smile widened. "Ah, good." She stood and walked to Ruth, taking the pot from her, glad to have it safely back on the counter. "Then you must read it, Sophie."

Ruth didn't need to be asked twice. Going quickly to the chair, she sat and clicked the subject line, which continued to say _RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence_. She was beginning to truly love those words. With a sharp intake of breath, she realised that this time, it was from Harry. For the first time in twenty-two days, Ruth was having a conversation of sorts with Harry, and her heart filled again, just knowing that his mind had conceived the words she was reading, his fingers had touched the keys to create them on the page.

Twenty-two days. Ruth's mind went back to their conversation at the safe house. _Fifteen days together, and how long apart?_ She had asked that question of Harry. Already they had been apart longer than the fifteen days, and if possible, Ruth felt she loved him even more than she had that night.

The wish to read slowly and savour every word lost out to Ruth's impatience. _I have some time on my hands these days, more than usual, and a recent loss has opened me up to thoughts and feelings that seem to want expression ... _The words went right to her heart. _Yes, Harry, I have too_. They had been so immersed in each other on such a deep level, and then it had been wrenched away. There was so much she wanted to say. Of course he felt the same.

_I have no desire to depress a newly-made friend, or to make your life more difficult as a result of listening to my woes, so please let me know if that is not your intention ..._ Sweet Harry, she thought, still worrying about her. Ruth could only think, O_h, my love, my intention is simple_. She wanted to know everything he felt and thought, to imagine they were in his car on the way to Bath, sharing Chinese across his kitchen table, lying in bed watching the light play in each other's eyes. Talking, just talking, as they always had. _That is my intention_.

_And as for your being a mule? Please remember it's only an expression. Perhaps the one who called you that was a bit fixated at the time ... _Ruth couldn't stifle the laugh that came from deep within her. She looked up at Isabelle to see if she'd heard, and Isabelle gazed back at her, smiling sadly.

The movement of Ruth's eyes had shaken the tears that were forming there, and one fell, creating a dark spot that spread into a wet stain on her skirt. She said nothing to Isabelle, but a silent moment of understanding passed between them.

Isabelle moved behind her and put her arms round Ruth's neck, pressing her face into her hair and whispering, "If it can bring him closer to you, I will stop criticising the machine, my dear Sophie. I would that Pierre and I had been able to do this." Isabelle kissed the air next to Ruth's head, and moved out into the shop to give her some privacy.

Ruth looked back at the screen. _Faithfully yours. __My love, my Harry. Yes, faithful forever._

* * *

Ruth forced herself to wait until Wednesday to reply. She had actually composed the letter first on paper over the week-end, written in her neatly compact, straight up-and-down hand as she sat propped on her bed with tea, scone and fragrantly fresh cantaloupe. It was Saturday morning, and between writing lines, Ruth looked down through the window at the park across the street where a family had gathered for a small picnic and a couple strolled lazily with their dog.

The windows were open, and the sunshine did its best to offset the slight chill in the air, but Ruth was bundled up warmly as she wrote. She felt at peace in her apartment this morning, as if she really did live here, and especially so with Harry in her head the way he was now. She had the new words from his letter to remember him by, and she felt the strength of their love, not only intact, but growing somehow under the strain of separation. In the way that pressure creates diamonds, Ruth sensed the love they felt for each other hardening into something indestructible.

Ruth missed Harry deeply, and was only slightly less fragile than when she arrived in Paris, but from his letter she knew that if she didn't sound strong, he wouldn't feel free to write the depth of his feelings. _You will set the tone by the type of letter you send back to me, and I will follow your lead._ She knew what she wanted the tone to be. She wanted his heart, all of it. So she would give him hers, and he would know then that he could say anything to her.

_Dear Mr. Arden,_

_Regarding your recent letter, I'll start with the question that feels most compelling, and give you a firm answer. Yes, I feel strong, much more so since this correspondence began. I am in challenging circumstances, but I do want to hear everything you want to say, so I beg you not to worry about depressing me. _

_I am also enduring a recent loss, and to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't mind a distraction from the horrible self-pity that overtakes me sometimes. You and I may find we can offer each other some comfort through our separate experiences, rather like two strings side by side on the same instrument, resonating, as it were. _

_Somewhat poetic, that last line, yes? Although I know she doesn't fit precisely within the bounds of the Romantics, I have a fantastic soft spot for Jane Austen, and somehow the idea of writing letters back and forth feels very Austen-esque. Of course, face-to-face communication is what I would most desire with a friend, but as that isn't always possible, there is something about letters that allows us to explore a new dimension of each other, don't you think? More thought goes into them than the haphazard spontaneity of speech, and it takes me back to the time when travel wasn't so easy and lovers had to endure terribly long separations as a matter of course._

_I suppose if one must be desperately without the love of one's life, then Paris is a beautiful place to do it, but it does come served up on a double-edged sword. I haven't ventured out to the typical lovers' spots, the boat ride on the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, la Passerelle des Arts, primarily to avoid the ever-present couples strolling there, and the soppy feeling-sorry-for-myself that tends to follow. _

_I have recently had my own perfect experience of the romantic sort in Bath, and the sharp, sweet memories of that time can reduce me to tears in a moment. In fact, that week-end seems to have taken on a magical quality in my mind. I don't use that word often – magical – but my companion at the time used it, and it is apropos in this particular situation. I was happier and more myself in those three days than I have been in my entire life. It is my fondest dream to go back there again with that very same wonderful companion._

_So I will wait to do the romantic things in Paris until I have company approaching. But I do expect a journey to the Louvre very soon, and hope to immerse myself in the beauty and the history of that building and its glorious contents._

_My apartment in Paris is perfect, really. Bright and cheery to offset what has been my generally maudlin mood since I've arrived, although I assure you I am cheering up slightly. It's completely furnished, but the most lovely furnishing was a vase of flowers with a card nearby that said simply, "Je t'aime." Gave me a ridiculously good cry, and absolutely worth it._

_I'm very lucky to have a new friend in the woman who owns l'Alcove. She is extraordinarily kind and compassionate, and we share a love of books and literature that others would view as bordering on the obsessive. And where I tend toward the head, she gravitates to the heart, so we complement each other in our differences. She has also had life experiences that are extremely instructive to me._

_She credits the kindness of a particular person in the past for what she sees as the overflowing goodness of her present. She calls him "the best kind of man," in her charming mix of the French and English languages. She has never forgotten his assistance, and now I am the grateful recipient of her appreciation of that good and generous gentleman._

_To sum up, I am feeling fine, the letters of which stand for fragile, insecure, neurotic and emotional. I am also at times exhilarated, and you mustn't ask me to come up with words for all of those letters, as I haven't the energy this morning. But I bloody well could, Mr. Arden, and you should be aware of that._

_Most importantly to tell you, there is a man in this world who owns the whole of my heart. Every day without him is a day lost to me. I want to know what he would think of everything I'm seeing and doing, and I long for him in a way that cannot be adequately described. There are times when the only solution to missing him is simply to stab scissors in the wall, but instead I crack on, as I know he would want me to do._

_So, I have now exposed myself completely, precisely so that you can have no second thoughts about doing the same. I must conclude from your letter that this type of revelation about my state of mind is what you were seeking, and I am anticipating some equally shameless admissions in your next letter. Pour it on, please, as I am fully prepared for the onslaught._

_Your new Parisian friend,_

_Sophie Persan_

* * *

Harry put his head in his hands, feeling a wave of love that he felt nearly threatened his sanity. There she was, his Ruth, right there on the page. He felt almost as if she was in front of him, speaking the words. He was so grateful to have the essence of her, but it caused him to miss her with an intensity that made him almost lightheaded. He wanted all of her, to hear her voice, to make love with her, to see her in his shirt, have dinner with her, touch her hands, feel the soft warmth of her lips.

But this had to be enough for now. And really, he thought, not wanting to seem ungrateful to whatever mysteries had allowed them this unexpected correspondence, it was so much. Her love poured off the page and made its way directly to his heart.

Malcolm had worked his magic again, and now Harry could access the account from his own computer. He'd received her letter on Wednesday morning, and had read it more times than he could count since then. Now it was Sunday night, and he felt he'd waited long enough. He would finally answer her, having let four days pass. He would write his reply here on the Grid, in the middle of the night, as he awaited reports on Adam's progress with Richard Dempsey and the sporadic phone calls from Ros updating him on Niko Grecic's condition.

Ruth did seem fine, although he chuckled softly as he re-read the bit about what the letters stood for. _Yes, I am too, Ruth_. Fragile, insecure, neurotic and emotional. How many times had he thought of her today? When did he lose count? The worst was when he had walked through the car park below Thames House with Ros. He'd had to tell them where to put the van with Grecic so it couldn't be seen by the cameras, and he'd chosen the exact spot where he had drawn Ruth behind the column and kissed her. As he walked back to the lift, he'd allowed himself a glance back, just one, to remember.

Harry looked out at the dark and empty Grid. He frowned and leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. A deep sigh escaped him, and for a fleeting moment he had an almost uncontrollable desire to get his coat, walk out through the pods, get on a train, and go to her. He would stand below the window of her cheerful Paris apartment and yell up to the fifth floor at the top of his lungs, _"Sophie Persan, je t'aime!"_ She would appear at the window like Rapunzel, run breathlessly down into his arms, and he would never let her go.

Another sigh, and he almost moved, in fact he willed himself to stand up, but just then his desk phone rang. It was Ros, asking about Grecic's blood group. Harry got the file, told Ros, and rang off. And he wondered, if he hadn't been here, what would have happened? And could he have lived with it?

Reaching into his briefcase, Harry took one more furtive look out to the Grid, although he knew there was no one there. Opening a case, he pulled his glasses out and put them on his nose, sitting up straight in front of the computer screen. He opened her email, and pressed "reply." She had left the subject line there, and so would he. _RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence._ This had to be enough, he thought again, and really, it was so much.

_Dear Sophie,_

_I have taken the liberty of calling you by your first name, as your letter let me know that we are fast on our way to becoming very good friends. __I hope you will call me William, or, as my very good friends call me, Will. _

_And you are correct, the magnificent honesty and openness of your letter has given me carte blanche to be likewise. You surpassed my wildest expectations, actually, and I will need to run a bit to keep up with you. The constraints of my job tend against the phrase "honest and open," but I find I feel safe with you, and will make a concerted effort to match your candour._

_Something about my work as a start, because it is very much on my mind at the moment, and also, that way I will ease into the discussion of my heart, which you can expect to be uncharacteristically sentimental and somewhat mawkish. I anticipate that it will be the depressing part, so you may want to work your way up to it._

_My position at the bank requires that I make decisions every day that are challenging, and have long-reaching consequences. __I am a supervisor, and must keep a certain distance, but I care very much for those under me and have a tremendous respect for the work they do. When decisions must be made, they look at me as if I have all the answers, their bright eyes waiting for whatever gems will fall from my mouth, when in truth, I rely on instinct for those answers, and not always with bursting confidence._

_It may be that my greatest asset in my work is the fact that I can move on from the bad decisions without an excess of post-mortem. Oh, they stay with me, to be sure, but I can compartmentalise better than most. I suppose what allows me to go on is that no human being could get it 100% right, and I can't imagine someone who would do it better right now. When I can imagine someone else doing better, I'll find other pursuits. Travel to Europe. Perhaps I'll come visit you in your bookshop and we'll go for a coffee under a bright blue umbrella._

_I tell you all this, Sophie, because a recent decision to transfer an employee is weighing heavily on my mind tonight. She was so courageous, so valiant in her acceptance of that decision that it makes me feel very small sometimes. From what I hear in her correspondence, she seems to be doing as well as can be expected, but I continue to wonder if there wasn't another solution. Of course it can't help that I am also very much in love with her._

_So it seems right now that my days are filled with two things and two things only. My job, which requires me to have my wits about me at all times, and the pain of missing someone, which resides as a dull ache in my chest most of the time, but sometimes pierces me surprisingly, causing me nearly to jump out of my skin. In between, I eat badly, mostly crisps and canned tuna, and sleep badly, from missing her. And I try to remember to walk a small, sweet dog who loves me unconditionally through it all, but seems a trifle perplexed by my recent preoccupation._

_Ah, yes, and every minute, as all the rest of this is going on, is consumed with my thoughts of how to get that courageous, valiant employee back under the roof of the bank. It's complicated, painstaking work, but it is progressing. I can only hope she knows that it's the critical, overarching task of my life right now._

_On to some random thoughts which will__ convince you that I am very much in need of a friend to talk to these days. As I'm unable to bare my soul to anyone at work, and the small dog simply won't give her opinion apart from a tilt of the head when I say something completely absurd, I'll need to rely on you to listen, and will hope that you find these little snippets interesting._

_Something very distressing happened last week, although it all worked out well. Alan, a senior officer here at the bank, is raising a son alone after losing his wife a couple of years ago. His job with us is very demanding, and he travels quite a lot. His young son went missing, a nine-year-old let loose alone in a big city at night, and all of us here worried terribly for him. He was safely found at the train station, wanting a ticket for Vienna, where he believed his father was working. He planned to go there to help his Dad, to surprise him. That little boy broke our hearts, and Alan seems on the edge of something not quite healthy. I'm becoming increasingly worried about him._

_On the home front, I've recently acquired a couple of cats, and not being a natural cat person, find it a bit of an adjustment. They split their time between the window seat, where they sun themselves, and the bed, where they lie next to me as I sleep. I appreciate the scrap of warmth they offer, as that side of the bed sometimes seems very cold, indeed. And I remember often that those diminutive fur-bearing bodies contain little hearts that were nurtured by someone I love very much, so it seems sometimes as if just a part of her is there on the bed, curled up with them. _

_Right now, unfortunately, I am not in my bed. I sit in the office, pulling an all-nighter, as we used to say in University. Work demands that I be here and available, but my powers are at a low ebb, especially my psychic ones, which were just required on a phone call that took me away from this letter for a moment._

_I hope you don't mind that I spend a good deal of my time whilst I write to you thinking of her. You have her same sharp wit, her same love of Jane Austen, and I believe she was known to stab walls with scissors on the odd occasion. As I sit here in the dark, wondering what impossible decision will next be required of me, I wish so much that her arms would come round my neck and she would materialise, ghost-like, as I imagine her so often._

_No, not ghost-like. I want her real, solid, substantial. I want to feel the warmth of her skin, feel her lips. If it's not too much to tell you, I want to make love to her all night long, and I despair of the chances I had that I didn't take. I knew her for a few years before declaring my love, and all those nights alone come back to haunt me now. _

_Did I tell you she has a necklace that I love? It holds a secret. Maybe in this very moment, she's touching that necklace and remembering my lips there. I hope so._

_Well, Sophie, I fear I have now run ahead of you in the honesty, openness and candour departments. Feel free to pull me back if you wish. This connection is becoming very precious to me, and I will do whatever is necessary for it to continue._

_Before I go, there's something very important I need to tell you. If ever you should wait for a reply from me, it will be for a very good reason. You must never worry that I am anything less than a devoted and constant correspondent. Please continue to write and trust that I will contact you as soon as my job makes it possible. I never know what's coming around the corner, but I will find my way back to you the moment I can._

_I hope you enjoy the Louvre, although I write those words with more than a tinge of jealousy and selfishness. Museums put me in awe, and that one may be the best of them. I would relish hearing your thoughts as you contemplate the Masters, so take down notes, will you?_

_Yours ever faithful,_

_Will Arden_

* * *

Ruth stepped off the Ligne n°1 train at the Bastille station, and from there it was a lovely five or six minute walk down the Boulevard Beaumarchais. Her walk took her past jewellery shops, patisseries, hotels and dress shops, and then on to Le Café Hugo at the corner of the Rue du Pas de la Mule, which always made her smile, and seemed only right somehow. She sat for a while on the terrace, and enjoyed watching the people walk by while drinking her café crème and eating a croissant. It was Monday, and the hotel and square were buzzing with activity. Then she headed on to _L'Alcove_.

She arrived before Isabelle, so she opened the shop, turned on all the lights and pushed the heat up a bit before moving into the back to turn on the computer. By the time she had hung up her coat, her email was ready to open.

_RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence. _The loveliest set of words in the English language. Ruth eagerly read his letter, and very soon regretted the mascara she had just applied. Her mind and her heart told her what Harry had wanted to convey. He loved her just exactly as she loved him. She could have written those thoughts to him and they wouldn't be any less true.

She hoped Isabelle wouldn't be in early today, and that no customers would come through the door, because Harry's letter had touched something very deep inside her. The way she was crying reminded her of the day she had learned that not only had Harry been shot, but that Tom had shot him. Her world had felt shaken to the core. Two men she loved, in very different ways of course, were pitted against each other. She thought that nothing would ever be the same after that, and she was right. Tom had left, finally, and she still missed him.

And Harry had survived, Ruth thought, as she wiped her eyes and began to calm. And he loved her this much. Her hand went to the necklace, holding the secret charms, and now she did feel his kisses there. She closed her eyes, and there was the gold of the candlelight again, that last night in the safe house. And again she said what she whispered as the boat pulled away thirty-two days ago.

_Yes, Harry. When we are together again. Yes_.

* * *

Isabelle all but pushed her out the door. "Go, Sophie! You know how Tuesdays are, my dear. No one needs books on Tuesdays!" She laughed, and Ruth smiled back at her, raising her eyebrows in a question.

"If you're sure, Isabelle."

"It is the perfect time to go. You will miss the tourists, and the children are all in school." Isabelle sighed. "Ah, Le Louvre. All my life, and I never tire of it." She gave Ruth another light tap. "Go!"

Now Ruth smiled broadly at her, and hugged her. "Oh, thank you. I want so much to see it. Thank you, Isabelle."

The bell sounded over the door as Ruth stepped out into the bright spring sunlight. A perfect day. She was holding off writing back to Harry until she had seen the museum, wanting to share it in a letter to him. It wasn't far, the walk back to the Bastille station and four stops to the Louvre-Rivoli Station, and she was there.

Across the street stood the bell tower of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, which was the imposing church of the _Palais du Louvre_, before it became a museum. Ruth couldn't resist. She stepped inside and the familiar calm came over her as she looked up at the rose-colored stained glass windows and listened to the echoes of footsteps from the few that were visiting this morning.

Ruth moved solemnly to a pew in the middle of the church and sat quietly. She closed her eyes and felt the history around her, breathing deeply of the aroma of wood and stone, mixed with the wax of the burning candles. She first said a prayer of thanks, to whatever power had kept her safe and strong, and then she said one for Harry, to keep him from harm until she could hold him again.

She didn't know how long she sat there with her eyes closed, only that a peace descended on her, almost as if she were in meditation. Ruth's breath quieted and she lost the sense of her surroundings for a time. Until she heard a noise next to her, and a woman's voice in a whisper.

"Ruth?"

She opened her eyes suddenly to see the bright eyes and sharp features of Christine Dale.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER FORTY**

* * *

Christine smiled at her and moved closer. "He thought you would come here," she said softly.

Ruth was silent, dumbfounded. Her heart was pounding, and she didn't know whether she should fight or flee. Finally, she whispered back, trying to sound confident, "_Who_ thought I would come here?"

"Harry." Christine put her hand over Ruth's, trying to calm her. "I'm working for Harry, Ruth. I'm on your side."

Christine angled her head toward the door, indicating that they should go outside. She led the way down the aisle, and Ruth followed her, still sceptical, but compelled to find out what this was about. And she had to admit that although it was terrifying to hear her name spoken, it was also somehow comforting. This was another person who knew her. Knew Ruth Evershed.

The last time Ruth had seen Christine was when she was being interrogated by Harry. She had never forgotten what Christine said. _I thought it was wrong we didn't tell you there was an assassin here. I love your country. And for your mikes in this place, I love Tom Quinn._ Harry had seemed unmoved, but Ruth was not. She felt the truth from Christine, and thought her courageous in her loyalty to Tom. And at the same time, Ruth had been furious with her.

Tom was assumed to be dead in the North Sea, Harry was in hospital with a nearly perforated lung from Tom shooting him. All because of Christine. At the time, Ruth thought of her as a modern-day Helen of Troy, or as Harry so eloquently put it, _some sort of old-style honey trap_. In any case, loving Christine seemed to have destroyed Tom Quinn, and Ruth cared deeply for Tom Quinn.

And then, the piece in the news that Ruth had come across and shown to Harry. She'd walked into his office and simply put it on his desk, without a word. Almost a year after Tom left the Services, in an article about Tessa Phillips' security firm, Ruth pointed to the lines at the end. _However, Phillips is facing competition from another ex-MI5 officer, Tom Quinn. Quinn works alongside his wife, Christine, a former CIA officer, at Trans Atlantic Security, which they co-founded earlier this year_.

Harry had looked up at Ruth and smiled. He had said only two words, softly. "That's good." And in those two words, Harry told her that he was glad Tom had found some happiness in the real world. Ruth had smiled back, and it was clear to both of them that they still cared for Tom Quinn, and in their way, for Christine, because it seemed she truly did love him.

So, as Ruth followed Christine down the wide aisle of the church, it really wasn't farfetched that Harry would have trusted her with this information, but Ruth wasn't going to be convinced that easily. As they stepped out into the sunlight and moved around to the side of the church, Ruth took Christine's arm. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Christine smiled again, a warm smile. "He thought you would say that, too." She reached her hand up toward Ruth's face, but then moved it to the right and touched her necklace. She found the two charms, the H and the R, and held them gently between her fingers. "He loves you very much, Ruth. And I'm here to help you."

* * *

_I wonder if they've made contact yet?_ Harry was actually experiencing some degree of difficulty concentrating, just thinking about it. The idea that Christine was there in Paris, so close to Ruth, elated him somehow. He felt he was surrounding her with people she could trust, and perhaps she wouldn't feel so alone. First Isabelle, now Christine and Tom, forming a cocoon of sorts, in lieu of his own arms around her. Although Harry didn't imagine Ruth would trust Christine right away.

He pushed away the report he was filing on John Russell's treachery. The report could wait, and after all, John was already in custody. The unknown was how Ruth was meeting with this new wrinkle. Harry would receive the report from Trans Atlantic Security, folded neatly inside his _Times_ from the news agent down the street, but that could take days. It had sounded to Harry as if Ruth would be visiting the Louvre very soon, and Christine would be waiting.

He'd tried to think of a way to tell Ruth in the email he'd written on Sunday, but decided he'd probably just end up confusing her with cryptic references, so he'd chosen in the end to simply trust the process. Christine was very skilled at what she did, and for an American, she was remarkably honest and forthcoming. He actually liked her rather a lot, now that he had reconnected with the Quinns.

He and Ruth had talked about Tom quite a bit during those last days. About what it meant to have a personal life separate from the Security Services. Ruth had mentioned a conversation she'd had with Zoe once, about how most of the time Harry knew when officers were interested in dating someone even before they told the person in whom they were interested. Not the ideal scenario for a happy ending.

But the two they held up as examples were Tom and Christine. The difficult conclusion wasn't spoken, but the question hung in the air. Would Harry and Ruth give up their jobs to be together? And somewhere in his mind, Harry had determined that he would contact Tom, if only to ask him how the story had turned out. To find out what it was like to have a real life, from someone he knew, someone with passion for the work.

Harry had asked Malcolm, actually, to make the four hour drive up to Liverpool on the week-end to visit the Quinns at their office. Much safer at the start than Harry doing it himself, and Malcolm had welcomed the idea of a night at a hotel by the bay. He came back fairly gushing of their modest business, and had recognised an ex-MI5 agent or two at desks. And Malcolm had also returned with his usual story, told with the requisite rolling eyes, about how similar his job was to being a doctor.

"Bloody hell, can't go anywhere anymore. It's forever, 'Doctor, I have this pain,'" as he told Harry about the inferior wiring, the lack of adequate firewall, and the Ethernet problem that was keeping them from networking the ages-old computers at their desks. Harry knew that Malcolm in fact loved being asked all those technical questions, and after a quick patch, had promised to go back soon and fix them up properly. And, ever the good Section Head, Harry knew it was an excellent cover story, so he encouraged it.

Harry had asked Malcolm in the most roundabout way about his impression of Tom and Christine's relationship. Malcolm had narrowed his eyes and frowned, trying to figure out what Harry was getting at, and then had finally given him the "Ah, I see" look. "You want to know if they're happy, now that they're no longer here in the warm bosom of our little family?" Harry had nodded, somewhat abashed.

"Yes, Harry. They seem resplendently happy. Actually can't stop, well ... touching each other." Malcolm's mouth set in a crooked smile as his eyes widened. "Quite lovely, in fact. Tom seems in very high spirits, and Christine so much less, erm ... spiky."

So Harry had decided to see for himself, and had spent his next free day driving up to Merseyside. He lost one tail in Birmingham, another in Telford, and from there it was smooth sailing. He thought Mace's rogues might be tiring a bit, and the inferior equipment they were driving were certainly no match for the Lexus.

He'd met the Quinns at The Hope Hotel, which seemed fitting somehow, and they'd had a lovely lunch together at the hotel's restaurant. Tom's eyes were sparkling, Christine was glowing, and yes, they could hardly keep their hands off each other. They reminded Harry of another couple that was very close to his heart.

Finally, over dessert and coffee, Tom had broached the subject that was weighing heavily on his mind. "Harry, we heard about Ruth. I'm so sorry." He looked down at his coffee, his mouth set. "I know you had tremendous respect for her, and you know that I cared for her too. Very much. We don't hear everything from London up here, but that news did get to us." Looking back at Harry, he smiled sadly. "Just wanted to tell you I was sorry."

Harry wore the face Tom remembered so well. Absolutely inscrutable. He could be composing his grocery list or planning to eviscerate you, and anything between. But he held it just a little too long for Tom's spook sense, and Tom tilted his head, frowning. Then, as it continued, Tom saw a smile begin, first in Harry's eyes, and then travelling to the corners of his mouth. Just the whisper of a smile.

Tom narrowed his eyes. "What don't we know, Harry?"

Harry took a deep breath. "Actually, that's one of the reasons I've come to see both of you." He pushed his flan away, half-eaten. "I wanted to see how you were doing, of course, but I would also like to retain your services. " Dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, he continued, "Privately."

Now Christine smiled, speaking softly. "She's still alive, isn't she?"

Harry paused and then exhaled. Christine saw so much in Harry's eyes then. Concern, pain, hope, desperation, determination. But what Christine saw most of all was a man very, very much in love. She didn't need to hear the answer. What she hadn't seen was grief. She nodded, and simply said, "Ah."

Harry leant forward, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. "You need to know how much trust I feel for you, that I'm here. It goes directly to my heart, and I don't bare that for many." He looked pointedly at Christine. "I knew Tom for ten years in the Services. I think I know him down to his soul. I understand why he did what he did, and he understands why I had to let him go."

Harry's voice softened, but there was still steel in it. "But you, Christine, I don't know. I'm making a great leap here, and risking a person whose life is more precious than my own." He reached across and took Christine's hand. It was clear to her that this was a pact they were making, more binding than any piece of paper she had ever signed. "I need to know I can trust you." Harry squeezed her hand, gently. His eyes were darker than their usual brown, intense, riveting her. "Can I trust you, Christine?"

Christine continued to hold his stare. _Spies just love to play chicken_, she thought, _and I'm very good at this, too, Harry_. But she could see how much this meant to him. _He must love her very much, and that's not something to play with_. She squeezed his hand back, and said, sincerely, "Yes."

He released her, and Christine reached to her coffee cup. "Harry, I know we didn't meet under the best of circumstances, and I have no illusions about how you feel about the cousins." Smiling she said, "I'm not with them anymore. I meant it when I said I love your country." She looked at Tom, her eyes soft, "And I love Tom Quinn." Tom smiled back at her, staying silent. He knew this was between the two of them, and he had no worries about his wife's abilities. Or her loyalty.

Christine looked back at Harry. This time she smiled warmly at him. "Do I get any credit for moving here? For marrying a solid British man? For leaving the evil empire?" Harry couldn't suppress a small smile back as she continued, "I'm a good person, Harry. And although you were a little rough on me in your interrogation ... what did you call me ... the rotten apple?" Now Harry laughed, softly, and nodded. "Even though you were a little rough on me, I have great respect for what you do, and who you are." She looked at Tom again. "And the man my husband looks up to."

She looked back at Harry. "So, yes, you can trust me. And I'm good at what I do." Christine sat up straight. "I hope we can be friends someday. I would like that."

Now Harry gave her a genuine smile, and exhaled in relief. "Good," he said. "And my sincerest apologies for the rotten apple reference. I tend to dramatise a bit in my interrogations. Bad habit." He shrugged. "But sometimes very effective."

Harry looked at both of them in turn, and then continued. "And yes, Ruth is alive. She's in Paris, with a new identity. And we are very much in love. I'm prepared to do whatever is required to get her back home, but I need your help."

* * *

Ruth was looking out at the water, lost in her thoughts. In her hands, she held the note that Christine had given to her, written in Harry's familiar block capitals. _My beloved mule. Believe her. She is working with me. Stay strong. I love you._ It was definitely Harry's writing, and Ruth was frankly exhausted with the endless scenarios that might have Christine working against her best interests. In any case, she was sitting next to her on a bench overlooking the Seine, so her legend was blown. Ruth thought she might as well trust her.

Christine had her own thoughts to contend with. Being here with Ruth had brought it all back to her. Oliver Mace. _That man was slime_. Christine put her hand to her face and could still feel the slap of his meaty hand there. She put herself back in that hotel room, when Tom was on the run after shooting Harry.

She remembered Mace as he stood against the windows with the black of the night sky behind him. _Why did everything he said sound like a snarl, even when he was trying to sound solicitous?_ "Tom is a traitor. We must know what he and his friends are up to." Mace had taken a sip at his wine and frowned, obviously displeased with the vintage.

Christine had told him no. "I won't meet him! I won't!" She'd stood defiantly facing him, and then she moved over to the sofa and sat down, wearily. Behind her were two men, wearing the identical Special Branch uniform of coat, tie, and white shirt. One of them, she knew only as Baker, the other one she had never seen.

"You will, or I will give your masters a very hostile report. You'll be interrogated for months. Drinking out of a toilet bowl in a CIA facility. Standing up all night in a freezing cell." Oliver moved closer to her, his voice concerned, soft. "Mmmmm?" Oh, he was very concerned, until he slapped her so hard across the face that she fell to the floor and saw stars drifting across her line of sight. _Yes, charming man_.

Mace feigned distress, and took Christine by the arms, helping her back to the sofa, as she held the side of her face to try to ease the pain. "Oh, okay, shhhhhhh," he said, as one would speak to a child who's had a bad dream. He stroked her hair. "You know my reputation, don't you, Christine? Hmmm? I don't let people not do what I want them to do."

He leaned back, having made his point. Now his voice was hard, flint-like. "So choose. They say that in American prisons, traitors have a worse time than paedophiles." He laughed cruelly, and took the box that was handed to him by his man, Baker, who stood behind Christine. Opening it, Mace handed her a small transmitter.

Christine had worn the wire, and in so doing, had betrayed Tom. That moment, when Mace had struck her down, was the beginning of the end of her career with the CIA. The events that followed had almost destroyed her, and Tom. She was so grateful that Tom had found her when he did, after he left MI5 but before she had flown away from Britain, heartbroken, feeling she had nowhere else to go but back to the States.

So, as Christine thought about Ruth, she realised that Oliver Mace had gotten what he wanted from both of them. He'd beaten them both up, in a way, and forced them to do things that were entirely out of character. It really was time for Oliver Mace to pay for some of the damage he'd done. And the two intelligent and determined women sitting on this bench were just the ones to make him pay.

"Okay." Ruth's voice pulled Christine back into the present.

Christine turned, and Ruth was looking at her. Ruth's face had softened, and she held the short note in her hands as if it were fragile, like a flower. Christine could see now just how much she loved Harry, too. Ruth looked her right in the eye and said, "What do you need from me?"

Speaking softly, Christine began. "Harry said you'd never had a real de-brief about what you saw at the tube station. You didn't push Maudsley, but someone did, and you were closer to him than anyone else. Tom is working toward getting the original CCTV footage, although we think it's probably been destroyed ... "

Ruth interrupted her suddenly, smiling. "Tom. Where is Tom? Is he with you?"

"No, he's in London today. We thought it would be better to have this first meeting just be with me."

Leaning forward, Ruth asked, "How is he? Is he happy?" Her new circumstances had made Ruth more direct, primarily because she never knew when she was going to see someone again.

Christine smiled. "You mean did he make the right decision?" Ruth nodded and Christine's eyes softened. "Well, you'd have to ask him that, but yes, I think he feels he did. We love each other and we're very happy. We live in Liverpool, our firm is small, but we like it that way. We try to avoid the jobs watching cheating husbands and wives, and focus on security for local businesses, and some clients in London use us regularly."

Ruth asked eagerly now, "Do you miss it? Does he?"

Laughing softly, Christine shrugged and looked out at the water. "Oh, yeah, sometimes. It's like a drug, isn't it? Knowing things? We play a game with the newspaper, reading stories and inventing the real story underneath it." Looking back at Ruth, she smiled brightly, "But, really miss it? I don't, and I don't think Tom does either. We have a good life, and we have each other. That wasn't possible where we were."

Ruth smiled back at Christine, liking her more and more as the conversation progressed. "Will you tell him hello for me? And that I've missed him?"

Christine returned her warm smile. "Yes, I will. He told me to tell you the same, and he's looking forward to seeing you. He really was devastated when he heard you'd died, Ruth."

Ruth laughed nervously. "Well, yes, cripes, so was I!" She laced her fingers together in her lap and wrung them slightly. "I keep forgetting that I'm dead, you know? That there are people, lots of them, in London, who think I'm in that cold box."

Christine reached over and put her hand on Ruth's. "We're going to do our best to get you home."

Ruth looked gratefully at Christine and took a deep breath. "So, where do we start?"

Turning to her, Christine said, "We start with the de-brief, and I want to show you a photo of this guy, Niles Baker. He's done most of Mace's dirty work, and if we can place him at that tube station, we may be able to prove he pushed Maudsley." She gazed for a moment out at the water. "Harry's working on the inside aspects, trying to discover who Fox was, and he brought us up to speed with all the files. And Tom's kept a number of very loyal sources from his time on the Grid, so he's hoping to work them."

Ruth's voice was just above a whisper, "You saw Harry? How?"

Christine looked back at Ruth and saw that her eyes were glistening. "Yes, he drove up to Liverpool and had lunch with us."

"How does he look?" Ruth tried not to sound pitiful, although she knew she did.

Christine tilted her head, and felt a wave of sympathy move through her. She had now seen Ruth and Harry separately, and she saw the same thing in each. Their overriding concern was for the other. This was real love, and Christine suddenly felt so sorry for them, and so lucky that she and Tom woke up together every morning and went to sleep together each night.

"He misses you terribly, Ruth. And he's completely committed to getting you home." She smiled and spoke gently. "He looks sad, but determined. And it's pretty clear how much he loves you."

Ruth's head turned sharply out to face the water. She was trying to shield the tears that were forming, and Christine had a desire to cheer her up a bit. "I have something for you. A surprise." She smiled as Ruth looked at her, blinking the tears back. Christine reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small mobile phone. As she handed it to Ruth, she said, "It will ring one of these nights, and I think you'll be pleased with the person calling."

Ruth took the phone as if it were a piece of him, and cradled it gently. "Harry?" Ruth said, looking at it.

"Yes. Malcolm set it up. One-time-only, and secure. Harry wasn't sure when, but he said Mr. Arden would let you know."

For the first time, Christine got to see the radiant smile that Tom had described. And it did light up her face. Ruth reached over and squeezed Christine's hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Christine smiled back. "So, where would you like to be de-briefed?"

"I could make us lunch at my flat? It's close by."

"Sounds perfect." They stood to go. "And Ruth. It's all going to be all right."

Ruth laughed softly, the tears close again. "Oh, God, I hope so."

* * *

**CHAPTER FORTY-ONE**

* * *

_I really must stop looking at this bloody phone_. Ruth put it down on the side table and forced herself to cross her arms, leaning back on the pillow. Eight days since Christine had handed it to her, and Ruth had taken it everywhere. Whilst she slept it was next to her head, whilst she showered it sat by the sink, whilst she cooked it held a place in her pocket. Christine had said Harry would let her know when it would ring, but Ruth kept thinking it might just suddenly go off on its own.

Christine had spent the day with Ruth after meeting her in the church. They'd had an impromptu lunch of salad, homemade soup and bread while Ruth told Christine everything she could remember about her last days in London. It was such a relief to be able to tell the whole story, from stepping out of Harry's door on the morning of Maudsley's death to stepping off of the dock and into the boat four days later.

And although Ruth's attention had been drawn unavoidably to her right that day in the tube station by the blonde woman screaming, she had closed her eyes, sitting in her small flat in Paris, and remembered a dark-haired man, medium height, with a somewhat military close-cropped haircut, who was directly to her left. To her left and forward a bit, in the perfect position to push Maudsley into the onrushing train.

Christine had then produced the photograph of Niles Baker, whom the CIA had dubbed Mace's master of dirty tricks, and Christine got to see first-hand the frown that appeared on Ruth's forehead, the one Harry loved so much. And Ruth had acknowledged that, yes, it could have been him. The key would be getting the tape that placed Baker there. Tom was trying to find out through his old assets what might have happened to the original CCTV tapes from that day, and Malcolm was working from the Grid to find the ghost that always seemed to be left behind, even when a tape was destroyed.

When Christine left that evening, she was on her way to meet Tom in London, where they would spend the night, before driving back to Liverpool the next day. Ruth hugged Christine, genuinely, asking her to tell Tom how happy she was about his new life, and how she had missed him. She hoped that he would find his way to Paris soon to see her, and Ruth knew he would be another touchstone, another road in the map from her life there, to the one she lived now.

Sitting at _l'Alcove_ after hours on Friday, she'd sent another letter off to Martin Wingate, keeping the pattern of four days that Harry had set. Isabelle was used to the schedule by now, and gave her a hug before leaving, whispering, "Say hello to James for me, dear, if you can. Tell him I love the friend he has sent to me."

Ruth smiled up at Isabelle and stood to give her a proper hug. "I'll do that, Isabelle." Then she sat down again to the puzzle she faced each time she wrote. How to say what was in her heart without saying more than she should. Harry's mobile, which was what she had taken to calling it in her head, was, as always now, by her side.

_Dear Will,_

_Your present arrived, and I can't express the joy it gave me. The messenger was a fantastic surprise, and once my heart resumed beating, we had rather a nice chat. Quite a peculiar sense of humour you have, Mr. Arden. I can say in all honesty that the little apple (apparently significantly less rotten) was the last one I would expect to have seen again. I'm sure you had a small chuckle over that, as did I, later. Much later, thank you very much. And now, in addition to everything else, you owe me a long and leisurely day's trip to the Louvre, preferably with a dear friend who can appreciate the Masters._

_I look at your gift now, sitting next to me, and wonder when it will begin to function as it was designed. But I've been told that I have a decided lack of patience in matters of the heart, so I will attempt to surprise you with my equanimity, and here is a perfect example -- sometimes I go for seconds at a time without thinking about it. So there you have it. Obviously, my patience is superb._

_And since I clearly don't care when this bloody little thing will complete its assigned task, I feel entirely free to talk about something as prosaic as the weather. Spring is lovely in Paris. I make my daily trek to the bookshop and watch the spirits of those I pass rise steadily with the temperature. _

_As I walk, I remember a goodbye on a very cold day, and how bleak and grey things seemed then. I try to find hope in the slightly longer, brighter days at this time of year, and the renewal and regeneration that come with them. The little apple brought those feelings with her, Will. Thank you, truly, for that._

_The bookshop is thriving, and Mrs. Fontaine has just expressed her gratitude for a new friend. This might have been simply an expedient choice of job, but it was a good one, and I, too, am grateful for it. It has a simplicity and an elegance that I find attractive, although I'm not certain how long that will be the case. I feel I am playing at being something I'm not, something that is a bit against a nature which leans in an entirely different direction. But for now, it will do. I would say I am content, but I do miss the excitement of my last place of employment, and the routine sometimes lulls me into a stupor. Much as I would like it to believe it, simple and elegant may not, after all, be my style._

_Mrs. Fontaine has allowed me to teach her a few things about sorting and organising the shelves, not to mention what she delightfully calls "the machine" which I am using to write to you. She's actually becoming quite adept, which is a great comfort to me, as I'm feeling an optimism that I might not be here forever. The hope spoken of above is leading me to believe I should be sure my work can carry on, were I to suddenly find myself travelling somewhere familiar._

_May I talk about hope? What an enormous feeling goes with that tiny word. When it's gone, the heart is empty, tipped out, forlornly waiting for something. As it creeps back in, it carries with it the most wonderful pictures, of people and places and memories. The eyes brighten, laughter comes easily, and everyone seems more friendly._

_It brings to mind something I read recently by the wonderful Indian author Arundhati Roy, when she wrote about hope. _"Not only is another world possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing."_ Today is a quiet day. _

_I was also thinking recently about the strength of steel, and how it must be folded and beaten and refolded to achieve that strength, and then nothing can break it. Two people can be like that as well, I think. The man I told you about? He is dearer to me in this absence than I might have realised had he been with me every day. That may be the only silver lining to which I can cling, but it makes it no less true._

_So I wait for the real gift that lies within this device I hold often in my hands. And I hope I get some notice of its arrival, because I've planned an evening around it. I will take myself to a hotel with a claw foot tub, and will immerse myself in lavender bubbles, and remember. _

_I will listen to the voice that I love more than the words on this page can possibly describe, deep and resonant and full of love for me, which is the sweetest part of its sound. And I'll probably cry, but not enough to overflow the tub, thank God, because that's been done before and it was a disaster to mop up._

_Please don't make me wait too long, Will. What I said about my patience? Absolute bollocks. I have none._

_Residing in Paris but living in hope,_

_Sophie_

Ruth sat up on the bed again, trying to get comfortable. She'd tried a book, but kept reading pages she couldn't remember. It was now Wednesday night, and he should have had her letter five days ago, but she still hadn't heard from him. Only one day late, really, and he'd told her it might happen. No one knew better than Ruth what it could be like on the Grid in a crisis. And Harry was always required. _On the head of the king all the sorrows lie_. What she knew beyond a doubt was that if Harry was hurt or missing, she would have heard from Malcolm, and that was an indescribable comfort.

She read the _Times_ hoping to find some clue, but nothing seemed to be going on. The headlines were of flood warnings to the southeast of England, the highest spring tides in fifty years, very high water levels in the Thames Estuary – Ruth tried to imagine what possible connection there was to Security Services, but simply couldn't think what it might be.

So here she sat in her tiny apartment, obsessing about a phone call, and there was a whole world out there to explore. Ruth was frustrated with herself and her lack of imagination. Exile is one thing, but mooning about with no life beyond waiting for a mobile to ring was entirely another. She was in Paris, and could find nothing to do? How was that possible? Ruth had dreamt of Paris, but she realised now that her dreams had conditions. She was putting off living her life until Harry could live it with her.

Now when she dreamt, it was of her house in London, the bus ride to Thames House, the adrenaline of the Grid, the soft purr of the fluffy girls, touching Harry's hand secretly in the hall, seeing his eyes hooded in a private look, hearing him gruff and bear-like in a briefing. The Eiffel Tower hadn't a prayer of competing.

It was a temporary life, she knew. She was marking time only until she was able to go home to England, and to Harry. In fact, as she had written to him, she conducted herself at the bookshop as if she were perpetually on her two-weeks' notice, making sure that everything she did was documented for Isabelle. Naturally frugal, Ruth bought only small quantities of everything at home, thinking that at any moment she might walk out the door and never come back.

For that reason, she never took her necklace off, and never went anywhere without money for travel. It was a strange existence, but an endlessly promising one, not unlike reading a novel that you hope will end happily. Except that with a novel, the number of pages are finite. Ruth had no idea how long this life would need to go on.

Her meeting with Christine had helped to ground her, as if touching someone who had so recently touched Harry had passed some of his essence on to Ruth. She felt energised, as if she'd been given a shot of some revitalising vitamin. In her best moments, she could fool herself into believing that she was on some sort of holiday, resting up for whatever the Grid had to offer when she got back. But there were still moments that were the worst.

She missed him so much, and apart from that she missed the life that went with him. Not just the spying, which she loved, but the orderliness of her old life. She had found familiarity in Paris, at the bookshop and in the scenes of the Boulevard Beaumarchais, but it could, of course, never be the same. Isabelle now truly felt like a friend, but Ruth couldn't bear the dishonesty it required.

Suddenly, Ruth moved to the edge of the bed and stood. _Enough_. She had walked by the _Patisserie Orientale_ and imagined a dinner there with Harry. _Well, I can bloody well enjoy it on my own_. She walked in to the bath to survey herself in the mirror, and touch up her mascara.

For all her bravado, she did, however, take the mobile with her.

* * *

Harry sat waiting for the COBRA meeting at the Cabinet Office to start, and thought how unexpectedly his day had turned out.

This morning, he had walked along the Thames composing his letter to Ruth in his head, planning when he would call her. Today would be the fourth day, and he was proud of himself for again managing to wait. The last few days had been quiet on the Grid, with terror taking a holiday of sorts. He'd had plenty of time to digest Christine's report, and had even managed a secure call with her.

Christine had sounded slightly amused at his questions, and when he asked why, she told him that they were identical to the ones Ruth had asked her about him. She said she realised the seriousness of her task, but couldn't shake the feeling that she was passing notes in class. She said, yes, Ruth looked good, but she was sad, and missed him. Yes, her apartment was lovely, although small, and they'd had a nice day together. And yes, she had written him a note as well, which was included with the report.

_My beloved Will. Thank you for hope. I love you, too, more than there's room for on this note._

As he walked, watching the water of the Thames lap against the wall, he thought again of how those simple words, in her lovely hand, had warmed him. All those cloying phrases had come to mind, cheerful, jaunty, a spring in his step, but he was shameless in his good mood. He'd stopped to get his usual, a cinnamon latte and almond croissant from Carlo at the Caffé Express cart, expecting that he would go to the Grid and sit down straight away to begin writing.

And then all Hell had broken loose.

Members of Divine Earth, a terrorist environmental group, had stormed the Thames Barrier and threatened to destroy it unless their demands were met. High tide was coming at five this evening, and without the Barrier, it would result in a six foot wall of water that would flood the underground and most of central London. That made it a matter of Home Security, and it had landed squarely on Harry's desk.

And the day had ended unspeakably, with Harry offering an option to the Deputy Prime Minister that would save London, but would drown Adam and Ros. As Harry sat silently in his office with Zaf, Jo and Malcolm, each lost in imagining the horror their friends were experiencing, Ruth's voice came to him in one of her often-quoted Latin phrases. _Salus populi suprema lex_. _The welfare of the people is the supreme law_. It gave Harry comfort somehow to hear that in his head, as if she stood behind him and whispered it, softly squeezing his arm. _It wasn't your fault, Harry, you did the right thing_.

Harry asked, as always, for forgiveness from his two dying team members, and wondered again how long he could give orders of this kind. "Send in the divers. See if there are ... any ... survivors." When the head of the rescue unit sounded sceptical, Harry said, quietly, "Just do it."

He had probably saved thousands of British lives with that order, but he lived most painfully with the two he had lost. Until, an hour later, when the miraculous call had come through. Adam and Ros, safe, and on their way to have a good stiff drink together. He wished them well, and thanked whatever power in the sky had saved him from the guilt of another impossible decision.

But as he sat finally at the computer, his hands resting on the keyboard in the early hours of morning, Harry couldn't write Ruth's letter, because he couldn't lie tonight. He couldn't be Will Arden and pretend in clever phrases not to need the woman he ached for, the one person in the world who could absolve him of the desperation he felt after days like this one. He would have to tell her everything, break every rule of their pact together, draw her into his pain. Harry would have to tell the truth.

So instead of writing to her, he opened a new bottle of single malt, poured a glass, and fought the urge to call her. In the end, he didn't, not because he didn't want to hear her voice, because he did, badly. Harry didn't call Ruth because he wanted her to have that night in the hotel, listening to the tiny fireworks of the popping bubbles, breathing in the delicious lavender air, reminding him with her words of those three days of magic.

He wanted them both to have that night. So Harry waited, alone on the Grid, in his glass prison. _Self-denial_. Would there ever be a day that he could allow himself everything and everyone he wanted? A wave of self-pity threatened him, but he pushed it away, aware that there were men who would kill to have what he had. An extraordinary woman loved him, and he reminded himself with another swallow of scotch that he was still the luckiest man on Earth.

Harry had been so busy today, he hadn't crossed off the date on his calendar. He did it now, and wrote the small number in the corner that helped him mark the time on the prison wall. Forty-four days since she had slept in his bed, and as he wrote the number, he wondered how many more before she would sleep in it again, here in England, close beside him, where she belonged.

Forty-four days. Nearly three times the number of days they had spent in each other's arms. How foolish she had been in thinking he might love her less as time went by. She didn't need to be in his sight to grow in his heart, and she did, with each passing day.

* * *

The next evening, feeling stronger, and finally in possession of a minute of time, Harry wrote a belated letter to his Ruth.

_My dear friend Sophie,_

_This will be short, as I am in the middle of some urgent bank business. I wanted first to apologize for my tardiness in getting a letter to you. I will ask again for you to know that even if you fail to receive something from me at the allotted time, you are no less in my thoughts._

_I'm also making this short as I believe we will have a time very soon to express ourselves in a different way. Today is Thursday. In two days it will be Saturday, and it seems to me that eight in the evening is a good time for a bath._

_Although I would much rather stay here with you, I'm overdue at a meeting. I will owe you two letters in the future, and expect you to hold me to it. Just remember, Saturday will be a quiet day, a good day to hear hope breathing._

_Yours ever,_

_Will_


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FORTY-TWO**

* * *

_It rang._

Eleven days of carrying the precious thing, and it finally rang. And the ringtone? _Lillibulero_. Ruth was laughing as she picked up. "Harry?" In her voice was all the anticipation, joy and profound love that could be contained in forty-six days of waiting, and the voice on the other end did not disappoint.

"Ruth." Oh, God, it was him. His voice was deep and soft, saying her name, her real name, the name that told her who she was.

After sitting for a hour watching the clock until he could call, just hearing her voice rushed over Harry like a wave, and coupled with the emotion of the week, he couldn't wait another minute. His words spilled out, tumbling over each other on his exhaled breath, "I love you Ruth. I love you." Now he laughed, "Christ, I've been wanting to say that to you since the moment you stepped off the dock. No, since before then. I love you." She heard him pull away from the phone, a catch in his voice.

Now she started to cry. "I love you too, Harry. More even than I did then, so much. I love you, too." Ruth held her free arm around her middle, trying to contain all the feelings that were exploding in her at the sound of his voice. So well remembered, but becoming hollow with the days passing by, and now here it was, full and round and complete, bringing memories of long, warm nights with him.

They fell silent in their emotion, neither able to speak, so they breathed together, waiting to recover, feeling strangely awkward in this new place. Ruth spoke first. "Where are you?"

"On the Grid, in my office." His voice was hoarse, still choked, but he cleared his throat and got hold of himself. "Malcolm said I should start the call here, something about re-routing, or masking, some voodoo, smoke and mirrors ..." His voice trailed off in confusion, and Ruth laughed, finally, sniffling back the tears.

"Oh, Harry." She didn't need to say anything more. He knew the rest, and the affection with which she said it tightened his heart. They had a sort of shorthand now, something he had with no other person, and he sighed into the comfort of just knowing that her head rested next to a mobile that was connected to his, which rested against his ear.

He laughed too, easily. "I know. I need to understand what it is my people do. I'm afraid I may be a lost cause."

"Never. But whatever it is Malcolm needs you to do in order for us to talk to each other, please do it."

"He's given me two phones for some bloody reason, and I'll be switching sometime to the other one ..." Harry stopped her before she could say anything, "... and no, I have no explanation of why, Ruth ..." He was laughing again, his joy at finally talking to her evident in his voice, " ... _he_ knows, God help him, but I haven't a clue ..." His voice trailed off, and Ruth could feel his happiness.

She sighed. "God, Harry, how good you sound."

"And you, Ruth." He paused. "You're at the hotel?"

"Yes. It's lovely."

"I want to see," he said. "I want to imagine you in that room. Does it have a website?"

"Yes, it's how I booked it. The Hotel Britannique. There's a dash between. Dot com. There's a really good photo under 'Rooms.' Looks just like it. Second one, I think, bedroom divided from the lounge by a curtain, red footstool, gold carpets?"

"I see it." Harry's voice went deeper. "And you're sleeping in that bed tonight?"

"Yes, Harry." Her voice softened. "With you. I'm not letting you off this phone until I'm fast asleep. I won't be able to bear it. So if I should begin to bore you, you'll have to sing me to sleep or read 'War and Peace' or something. I want to fall into dreams hearing your voice." He could sense the tears starting again. "I've missed you so much."

Harry drew a deep breath, gathering his own emotion. He would never get through this call if they continued to do this. "Well, my love, we have a date tonight. So you'll hear as much of me as you could possibly wish."

Ruth was grateful for his playful tone, and, after a breath, she rose to match it. "A date? Where are we going?" She managed to remove her arm from around her stomach and could breathe again.

She heard him rustling, getting his coat on, from the sound of it. "First off, we drive a bit, maybe get out and walk, gaze at the water, just like all the other Saturday night lovers. I will be forgiven if I steal a kiss or two, because it's a very romantic thing to do."

She laughed. "I might let you, but don't get cheeky, you. I'm not easy, you know."

"I'll take my chances." She heard the whoosh of the pods and her breath caught, remembering the last time she had stepped through them. Mace on one side, Harry on the other, and her life in shambles. She pulled herself back to the present, erasing that picture and replacing it with Harry stepping through.

"And after you've had your way with me there by the River?"

His voice was soft, and the seductive tone was unmistakeable. "Then we travel to Bath, my Ruth."

She wasn't prepared for this, and she let out a small "oh." Her eyes welled up, and her voice got very small. "You're spending the night in Bath, Harry?"

Very quietly, almost in a whisper, he answered, "Yes. In our room. You're not the only one who knows how to book a room, Miss Evershed."

She was overcome. "Oh, Harry." Her wonderful, romantic man. "I'll know just where you are, too. Almost as if we're together." She shook her head, "But it's such a long drive, and you'll be there alone."

"I've hired a driver so I can concentrate completely on your voice for the way up. And not alone, Ruth. With you. I can't possibly see that room without you in it. And whilst you take your bath tonight, I might just try my luck at that damned tub. We'll imagine we're in there together again." He laughed softly. "Preferably without the flood."

Ruth smiled at the memory, a light blush coming into her cheeks. "It was a good flood, Harry. Utterly worth it from my side of the bargain."

Harry's voice went lower. "Well, maybe we can arrange another then."

She laughed softly. "Harry." Her voice rose a bit, suggestively. "What kind of call _is_ this, exactly?"

His voice was teasing, mischievous. "Whatever you want it to be, my Ruth." She heard voices, muffled in the background, over the phone. "And now, for my kiss."

Ruth leant back on the pillows. "You're there at the water? Oh, Harry. How does it look? Tell me."

"It's a clear night, and I'm watching other couples, just like us, strolling by. But no woman is as beautiful as you are, and no man as lucky as I am. No stars that I can see, but the lights of the city are quite stunning, actually." His voice softened and he whispered to her, "Ruth, there's only one thing missing, and you know what it is."

Ruth did know, and she wanted so terribly to be there with Harry in London. She could see him, a soft breeze blowing in his hair, his coat pulled up round him. She closed her eyes and willed herself there. "I'm next to you, Harry. My hand is warm on your cheek, and I'm leaning up, right now, to kiss you." For a moment they were both silent. Then she heard him chuckle softly. "Not half bad, Ruth. I find I'm quite able to conjure you here." She heard him sigh deeply, the moment broken. "But Christ, I want to hold you right now. Nothing here but empty air." Then she heard his breathing as he started walking again.

"I know. It aches sometimes, doesn't it? Like hunger." Ruth's voice trailed off, and she decided to get up herself, and move around a bit. "But your letters help, Harry. You have a gift with words, you know." She paced about the room aimlessly, picking up a pillow from the bed and moving it to the couch.

"Not my gift. It's that bloke Arden. He dictates, I type." Harry smiled into the darkness. "Your letters as well, Ruth. I keep them, although Malcolm says not to, and has forced me to lie to him about it. I read them over when it gets hardest to be without you. I was thinking they might make good reading for separated lovers. Call it 'Missing Someone.' And then I wondered if all separated lovers are as masochistic as I seem to be at times."

"I think I must be, too. All I know is it's better to be wallowing in missing you than not doing anything with you. So I miserably wallow. I was just thinking the other night, here I am in the City of Lights, and what have I seen?"

"You _almost_ saw the Louvre." She could hear the smile in his voice.

Ruth laughed. "God, Harry, if you could have seen my face when I turned and Christine was there like a ghost from my past. Cripes! You might have warned me!"

"I tried to think how, really. All I could imagine was some veiled reference to Tom, and the CIA, and suddenly I was playing Charades, first word, second syllable, sounds like, and you'd be sitting in Paris scratching your head, wondering if Margaret Thatcher was coming round for a visit."

They both laughed now, at the ridiculousness of their situation, at the hours they'd spent trying to communicate any semblance of truth to each other. And they both felt the same thing, it was such a relief to just talk.

Ruth heard a noise. "You're back in the car?"

"Yes, my love. Next stop on our date? The Windsor Guest House. You'll meet me there? Hold on, I'm putting on the earpiece." Harry went away for a time, and then Ruth heard a soft click. His voice was low, relaxed now. "A little over two hours. I will step into the hotel and ask for a reservation under the name of William Arden. I'll go up to our very room and walk through the door. And across the room, I'll see you, bathed in the glow of that light ..." He paused, and she knew he was waiting for her to continue.

Ruth sat back on the small loveseat and closed her eyes. "You'll see me, looking very timid and nervous at first. But you'll walk across the room to me, and take me in your arms, and kiss me." Ruth paused, lost in remembering, "Oh, that kiss, Harry. Made me feel not so very timid anymore." Softly, she said, "I want to be there again. I want to do everything again with you. Promise me we'll go back there. Together."

Ruth heard softness, but also the familiar steel in his voice. "I promise. We will do everything. That and more, my Ruth. I have help now."

Ruth smiled. "I'm glad you found Tom and Christine. It was a good choice. I liked her more than I thought I would, but I must admit at first I was surprised you trusted her."

"Yes, surprised myself on both counts," Harry said. "Liking her and trusting her. But now I find I especially enjoy her straight way of talking. Wasn't so charmed by it when we were on opposite sides of the table, but now that we have the same goals, it's quite to my liking." Harry laughed. "And an added benefit is that I'm learning a bit more about the CIA. She's really come over to Britain. She hasn't told me anything she shouldn't, certainly, but she marvels about the workings of Intelligence there in the same way we do here. I just sit and listen and learn."

"So you've seen them often?"

"They come to London fairly regularly, and I've gone up to visit twice, yes." He knew what her next question would be. "They have a good life, Ruth. It's what we always wondered, isn't it? Life after the Services? They're an example of a success story, I think." He paused for a moment. "And you know, something I hadn't thought about until just this minute? I haven't had friends in a long while. Of course there's Malcolm, and drinks at the George after a lengthy day with others from the Grid, but I've never really felt I could have proper friends because of the work."

Harry continued. "But we have dinner, and we laugh. I can talk about you, which is a huge relief, and they never ask about the specifics of my day as others might. There's a brotherhood ..." He paused, and laughed softly, "Sorry, a _circle_ ... you see, I can be taught, my love." He heard Ruth's soft laugh and could almost see her smiling. Harry's heart ached, but he went on, "A _circle_, of just a few who can be friends under these circumstances, and I'm grateful I've found them."

"I'm so glad, Harry." She sounded envious, and she knew it. Ruth pushed it away because she also felt true happiness in his contentment.

Of course, he read her mind. "I'm sorry you don't have that right now, my Ruth, but does it help to know that the fourth chair at the table is always filled by you? We all know it, and that's another reason I enjoy them. They both care for you as well, and don't comment on my madness, although Christine did say the other day that you and I reminded her of teenagers asking her to pass notes for them."

Ruth laughed. "God, I know, Harry. It's just what I feel. All that time on the Grid when I could see you every day, and I took it for granted. Now I scan down the emails for that glorious subject line ..."

He interrupted her, softly, saying it as an endearment, "_RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence..."_

Sighing loudly, Ruth said, "Oh, yes, the best bloody words in the world to read on a cool Paris morning." She smiled. "Because it means I get closer to you, Harry. I sit in that hard wooden chair, surrounded by books, and it puts me right back into your arms. I can close my eyes and remember."

Her voice went almost to a whisper. "I find I remember Havensworth. The extremes of those days and nights. I thought my heart was broken irretrievably, that I would spend my life wanting you and never have you. I could have written the saddest novel that night, and then there you were." She laughed softly and lowered her voice to match his stern tone from that night, "_Ruth. A word_."

Harry laughed too, "I had no idea what I would say to you, but I knew I wouldn't sleep that night if I didn't say something."

He heard the smile in Ruth's voice. "You said the best thing. You said 'I love you.'"

Harry spoke slowly, deliberately, "I do love you. I'll always love you." Ruth tilted her head, listening, and leaned over on a pillow, as if it were him. "I want you to know that, Ruth. _Really_ know it." His voice took on a slight urgency. "I want you to hear this and remember it, to keep it close to your heart until the day you die, my Ruth. I love you, from my depths."

He continued, his voice low in her ear. "Since you've been gone, I've tried to wrap my mind around what's so frustrating about it, and it comes down to not being able to tell you those simple words often enough. I've said to myself that as soon as I have the chance, I'll etch them into you, write them indelibly on your soul, so there will never be a time that you doubt it, no matter where we find ourselves."

She heard the distant hum of the motorway as he paused. "I haven't said those words enough in my life, Ruth. _I love you_. They always seemed more tied up with strings and obligations than I could fathom, a mystery of sorts, and I wondered at how easily some could say them over and over. And now they follow naturally after your name. _Ruth, I love you_. My fingers go to type them to Sophie at the end of every letter, logically. I write the words _I love you_ through my letters to you and it always bothers me when I have to delete them."

"And no matter how this all plays out, no matter where we are, I want you to know that will always be true. If we sit in a meeting room, or we find each other at some gathering, or we're in a situation where it's impossible for me to tell you, I want you to hear the words in your head, as you're hearing them now. Ruth, I love you. I love you. _I love you_." His voice broke slightly, and he went silent.

She could see his face now as she closed her eyes. The openness of the Havensworth corridor, his tears in the soft golden light of Bath. As Ruth lay back on the red loveseat in the Hotel Britannique in Paris, she felt the words actually burn into her heart, complete with the accompanying pain. Her voice was ragged, soft, as she answered him. "I feel it, Harry. I'll remember. I promise."

A tear slipped down her cheek, first one side, then the other, and fell, spreading into the red of the cushions, turning the spots to the colour of blood. Her voice was low, gentle, slow, like the soft chant of meditation. "Close your eyes, Harry. I know you're not in Bath yet, but put yourself there, can you? In that warm, soft bed, in my arms? Remember how that felt, how it was to open yourself completely to me, to give parts of you that had been hidden for too long. Remember how the tears had come, for both of us. Can you?"

"Yes." She could only hear him breathing now, and with her eyes firmly closed, Ruth was back in the clean, white sheets with him, his voice in her ear. She spoke just above a whisper, "Oh, Harry, I'm there. Are you?" She said it with a wonder at what she was feeling, running her fingers across the smooth skin of his arms, the blonde hairs golden and glowing in the light, the feel of his lips, full and warm on her shoulder, her neck.

Not knowing it, Ruth reached her hand up to hold the necklace, finding the charms, and sighed. "Harry, I love you. It's unlike anything I've ever felt. It fills me, and makes me understand everything I've read about love, everything I've thought I should feel. I know how Beethoven felt, Michelangelo," Her voice was rising, and she smiled, and then laughed at her inability to express herself. "Symphonies, masterpieces, God, the hyperbole, but it's _true_."

Now she heard Harry laugh too, and the moment morphed into something else, something they needed if they were to continue this conversation. "Thanks, Ruth, for reviving me," he said, shifting his position and taking a deep breath. "I thought I might melt right into this seat, and never be heard from again." He smiled now, and spoke softly, "That was a beautiful holiday, my love."

Ruth stood up slowly, stretching, and began to walk around the room again. "Ahhhhh, this is lovely, Harry. If I can't have you here, I'll take this. Can we do this every night? Please put Malcolm on it, would you?"

"I don't know when we'll be able to do this again, but I suggest you keep the mobile, just in case it should happen to ring." His voice took on a lighter tone, "And If you think Malcolm's not already on it, you've vastly underestimated me." Harry sighed. "And my love, this is where I'm supposed to switch off and call you back on another line, to connect to another ... oh, Christ, I don't know, but it will take a bit of time to accomplish. I need to call him, he needs to call me back, then he does something, then I call you. Will you wait?"

Ruth laughed incredulously, "Will I wait?" Her voice softened, went low, "Dear Harry, I've waited for a month and a half to hear your voice. Yes, I'll wait. I'll unpack my carryall, get the lavender out ... " She let her voice trail off suggestively.

Harry sighed deeply. "Oh, my wicked Ruth and her baths. Good, you prepare, and then we'll have the rest of the night together." He sounded as if he was about to ring off, but Ruth said, quickly, "Oh, and Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

Harry smiled. "I love you, too. Call you back."

Ruth pressed the button and leant back on the loveseat. Her heart was ready to burst with love for him. As she looked at the beautiful plush bed in front of her, the one she would sleep in alone tonight, she tried to find a way to be complete with what she had of him, his voice, his love, his mind. So much, really, but she still wanted more. To be able to touch him, too. To feel him.

She stood up, shaking it off, telling herself, _This is enough. This is more than enough_. As she moved to unpack, Ruth thought how sweet and romantic it was that he was going to Bath. And that he was staying in the same room? That was a lovely surprise to her. Suddenly a picture came to her mind, of Harry in bubbles in the claw foot tub at the Windsor Guest House, and her in bubbles here in Paris, talking through the night on the phone, and she smiled.

He knew that would make her smile, and she thanked him, silently. This call could have turned to sadness, a sense of being further apart than ever, of missing each other more, but the thoughtfulness he was showing, even hiring a driver so he could talk to her? This was the romantic man she discovered on their first day together in Henley-on-Thames. He was still planning their Grand Tour.

After she'd put away her few things, Ruth cradled the phone in her hands as if she were holding him. She didn't have to wait long. The mobile rang, and she smiled, knowing his voice would be on the other end.

She did her best to sound offhand, officious, and with a French accent. "Sophie Persan."

Harry laughed, and after a slight pause, said, "Will Arden to speak to Ms. Persan?"

Ruth's voice went back to her own, soft, low, "Mr. Arden. I've missed you. Have we eluded the bad guys?"

Harry smiled, shaking his head slightly, "Don't ask me how Malcolm does it, because I'm sure it beggars belief, algorithms or some such. But, yes, I think they've lost the trail."

Ruth laughed. "Malcolm has his own language, doesn't he? I know I've heard you say to him more than once, 'Malcolm, in English!'"

"Well, he's managed to assure me my office is properly debugged, and that's a relief." More seriously, he said, "Actually, Ruth, I think Mace's people are starting to lose steam, a bit."

"Really? That's good news , Harry. Why do you say that?"

"Well, they were following me very closely for a while, but Oliver is out of favour now, and hasn't the budget he used to. I lead them about town for my own amusement sometimes, and I suppose it's possible they've seen me with Tom and Christine, but with three spooks making dinner arrangements, I'd say that's unlikely. Not to hurt your feelings, my love, but you are rapidly becoming old news."

Ruth laughed. "Music to my ears, Harry." She grew more serious. "What does that mean, though?" Her voice rose hopefully, "That I can come back?"

Harry sighed. "Not yet. At least in Paris you have freedom. You can come and go as you please. Here you would be forever looking around corners, and I'd worry for you to the point of distraction, I fear. You're a born spook, my Ruth, but you don't want that life."

"A born spook." Ruth's voice suddenly seemed very far away. "Christine said they didn't miss it, but I have to admit, Harry, I miss it already. Maybe because Tom and Christine are still doing security work it stays interesting, but after I got Isabelle organised, the work has tended to drag a bit. I can feel myself getting restless." Ruth sat down again, kicked her shoes off and put her feet up on the table, wiggling her toes luxuriously. "Isabelle sends her best to James, by the way. She looks back so fondly at you. You really did your good deed with those two."

"They're good people. Well, Isabelle told me Pierre had died, but you can see for yourself what kind of person she is. No matter what mess they got into, they were just following their passion."

"What did they get into? Can you tell me?"

"They were discovered with a group that kidnapped and murdered someone. Quite serious, actually, but they were only connected to them, not involved in any of the planning or execution. They would have gone to prison with the rest of the lot, but I pulled them out and hid them until it all blew over." Harry smiled, remembering. "Terrified as rabbits, both of them. So different from the rest. No coldness in their eyes, just the glow of the idealist."

"Yes, that's what Isabelle called herself as well. _Idealiste_."

"You never know, Ruth, when your good deeds will come back to you. If my doing that for her then has made your life easier now, then the good has truly come back to me. You like her, yes? She makes you feel safe?"

Ruth smiled. "Oh, yes. She's taken me under her wing, just as you asked her." Ruth stood again, unable in her restlessness to stay in one position for long. "You gave me a very soft landing, Harry. Thank you."

There was silence for just a moment, and Ruth could hear the hum of the car in the background. Then Harry spoke, softly. "I went back to the safe house yesterday. For the first time since ..."

"Since we were there?"

"Yes." He gave a low laugh. "Everything exactly as we left it." He paused, and then continued with emphasis. "_Everything_, Ruth."

She thought for a moment about what he might be getting at. Then it came to her. "Oh, God. The Chinese?"

He laughed. "Leftovers still on the table. Transformed into somewhat of a science project."

Ruth laughed too. "Horrible sight to greet you, and I'm sure it smelled wonderful too? Lovely memories I left you with, Harry."

Harry's voice grew gentle again. "Yes. The candles, burned down. The sheets up still. Pen on the table. Bed disarrayed. Lovely memories, Ruth." He sighed softly. "I walked through it and remembered it all."

Ruth quieted too, but then she suddenly asked, "When do you think, Harry? When will it be safe again? Please tell me the truth. Because right now I'm in this exquisite hotel room, in this magnificent city, and I would give anything to be back in that dusty, drab warehouse with you again." Her voice was urgent. "I reach my hands out in front of me and close my eyes and I can almost feel you here. But almost is so hard to bear."

"I know. I feel the same." Harry exhaled. "I had you in my bedroom only once, and now you're there everywhere. You sit in my shirt, watching me get dressed in the morning. You pick out my ties for me. Sometimes I even talk to you, like some demented old man, speaking to shadows." Harry smiled. "Fidget understands, because she sees you too, I suspect. Phoebe thinks we're both daft and tells us so." Harry paused a moment. "And when? Oh, Ruth, if I could answer that, I'd ease my own mind. But I can't. I just don't know."

Ruth paced the room as she spoke. "What would happen if I just walked into England? I've often thought of that. Would I be arrested the moment I set foot there? I was looking at a map the other day. A town called Tweedmouth, nearly as far north as possible. I wondered, would Mace find Sophie there? I would still be in England, living on Sunnyside Crescent in Tweedmouth. There's a lovely cottage for sale. You could drive up on odd Sundays, and we'd set the town gossiping."

Harry smiled. "I'd like that. But if you're finding Paris a bit tedious, how do you think you'd feel about Tweedmouth, my love?" This was the perfect opportunity, and Harry had been thinking about this for some time already. "But it is interesting that you would mention that, because I've had my own daydream recently, and it's rather closer. I wondered if, when things calm down a bit more, we couldn't get you a clerical job with Trans Atlantic Security in Liverpool." He paused, and waited for Ruth's reaction.

She couldn't speak for just a moment. "Harry, if you're teasing me, it's not funny. Are you?"

"Not entirely, Ruth. You know the greatest challenge of disappearing is the paperwork. People always need places to live, and jobs, and have to pay taxes. But you'd have two professionals, who would also be your employers, who could handle all that. It's only a four-hours drive from London, and I've made it twice in the last several weeks. I couldn't help thinking how short it would seem if I were driving up to be with you."

She was nearly speechless. "Harry. Is this possible?"

"Possible? Definitely. Safe? There is the question. But I've asked Tom if they can come up with a scenario that works."

Ruth smiled, her heart full. "Oh, there's more of that hope Sophie was talking about, creeping in. You'll let me know about that scenario?" Ruth's voice sounded wistful. "I miss you so much, Harry, but apart from that, I miss England. I don't think I ever knew how happy I was there until I left it." She paused, thinking, then continued, "And I suspect working for a security firm might offer more excitement, and a far sight more research, than l_'Alcove_." She stopped herself, realising how she sounded. "Don't mistake me, Harry, I'm very glad for all of it, and it's a lovely bookshop. I've enjoyed it, and very much enjoy Isabelle. But I could also be content to visit her now and again."

Harry agreed. "Well, there's no question that Tom and Christine absolutely could use your help with their little operation. Malcolm is so enamoured of it that I despair of losing him from the Grid."

"Malcolm. My dear Martin Wingate. I'm so grateful to him."

"It was very clever of you to figure all that out, Ruth. It's why you were always so valuable to me as an analyst. Your mind works in ways that are a mystery to me. My first instinct is of the punch and run variety. You finesse things. Your fine motor skills are more sophisticated, and to you, there's always a logical solution. It's just a matter of finding it."

"Not always a solution. Not always." Ruth grew quiet, and they had a moment of silence.

Harry looked at his watch. "Do you know that it's been an hour and a half already since I first called you? Do you find that astonishing?"

Ruth laughed. "If you're looking at your watch, my dear Harry, I might think I'm losing my touch. How will we spend the night on the phone if you're bored after an hour and a half?"

"Quite the opposite, love. I'm rather enjoying this and it's unusual for me. I don't know if you've noticed in your astute analysis, but I am not what one would call a 'phone person.' I tend to say what I need. Hello and goodbye are superfluous."

"Ah, true." Ruth took her voice down to Harry's range, imitating him. "_'Yes. Yes. Do it. Yes_.'"

Harry laughed. "And that's a _long_ conversation. In that remarkably accurate re-creation, I said 'yes' three times, when one would probably have done." He loved the sound of her laughter, and let it ring in his ear for a moment. "You bring out the best in me, you know." He amended himself, "You _see_ the best in me."

"The best in you has always been there, Harry. I think you just see it now because I love you so well."

"That's a lovely way to put it, Ruth. And you're right, I do look at myself differently now. As I told you, when I forget what I'm worth, I think of you." He paused for a moment. "I wish sometimes that others could see me as you do. I haven't had a proper conversation with and Adam in days."

"What's happened?" Harry gave Ruth a recap of his day with Divine Earth and the fallout after. She breathed deeply, and said, "Ah, yes, the flood story. So hard to know what's really going on just from the papers. God, Harry, what a horrible decision to have to make."

He could hear the true compassion in her voice, and he leant into it. "You said something to me, Ruth, that I've never forgotten. It gave me such comfort when you said it, but I didn't feel I could tell you then, because we were so new."

"What did I say?"

"In the church, in Henley-on-Thames, that first day together. We were talking about Danny, and you said, 'You have to make the hard decisions, Harry. We all have the luxury of judging them.'" Harry sighed, "Ruth, you have no idea what that meant to me, because there are times that I feel, like I did last week, that I'm looking at a scale. On one side are thousands of British citizens, and on the other are just two. The scale wants to tip to the two, because they mean more to me in that moment than all the others. But it can't, and I can't let it."

Harry continued. "I look over at little Jo, with her enormous, round eyes, and she's asking me, so clearly I can hear it, 'Do you know what you're doing? You're killing Adam and Ros.' And yes, I know, but I can't even let her know that I care, because if I do, I'll have to move over to Jo's side of the room, that place where people wait for decisions instead of making them." Harry stopped, and she heard him take a breath.

"Oh, Harry. I want to ask you why you do it, but I know why. You're right, Will Arden does have a way of explaining things to us. He said it already, that you do it because you can't imagine someone doing better. And you're right. No one could." Ruth sighed. "No one could, Harry."

"Thank you, my love. You calm me. I'm so glad to have you here right now." She heard a question being asked in the background. "Hold for a moment, Ruth, can you?" A rustle, then, "Yes, A46, please, at Junction 18." Then he was back, "Sorry, new driver."

Ruth's voice was soft. "Junction 18. To Bath. Oh, Harry, how I wish I was there with you."

"You are. A disembodied voice, but I can imagine the magnificent body that goes with it."

Ruth felt a tingle run down her neck, and lower. "Mmmmm, that feels good. To feel something. Just your voice does that for me."

Now that voice vibrated in her ear. "Do you think, since I'm nearing Bath, that it might be time for you to start the water running?"

Ruth sat up, moving slowly. "I did promise you a bath, didn't I?"

"Yes, and I'll be checking in, getting to my room, and settling myself for this long night. I'm afraid I'll need you to describe everything to me. In detail. Might you be able to do that, my Ruth?"

Ruth laughed, walking toward the armoire. "Ah, so this _is_ one of those phone calls, after all." She reached in and pulled out the bottle of lavender soap. She went into the bath, and turned the tap. Her voice was low, seductive. "I'm turning the tap on, Harry, feeling the water as it goes from cold...to cool...to warm...to _hot_."

Harry squirmed in his seat, and exhaled loudly, "Oh, Christ, well, this won't take long, will it? Maybe I should have had you wait a bit, at least until I get to the room." She heard him mutter, softly, "Why did I not know you'd be very good at this, Ruth?"

Ruth purred in his ear. "Control, Harry. I know you have it. Exercise some, please." He could hear the water running now. "I'm pouring in the soap, a long, single, silky stream of it, and the bubbles are starting to rise, Harry. Rising, along with the aroma of lavender. I think I should take my clothes off now, so you wait here." He heard her put the phone down, and could hear her voice as if at a distance, echoing. At the same time, he heard the water running, and damned if he didn't think there was a faint aroma of lavender around him.

"First the blouse. It's getting warm in here ... " And as he listened, Harry saw her just as he had that night, standing in front of him, shy and challenging, beautiful, nervous, with so much love in her eyes. While he listened, he arrived at the hotel, and walked up to the clerk to check in.

"I'm stepping into the tub now ..."

The man might have thought his new guest had had a bit too much to drink, standing there with his mobile to his ear, not speaking, eyes glazed. But what he was seeing was a man who existed in two different places at once. Half of him was here at the hotel desk signing the register, and the other half was in a room full of fragrant steam, hearing how the soft, slick lavender bubbles were sliding off of her skin.

"It's so warm, Harry, and you sit across from me, loving me with your eyes ..."

Harry took his small bag up to the room, declining the assistance of the porter. Every now and then, she would say, "Harry? Are you still there?" And he would answer her, "Mmmmm, yes, my love, I'm checking in. I'm going up to the room. Don't stop, please. Keep talking." He never wanted her to stop, wanted her voice to be burned in his memory along with this feeling, his need for her rising with the steam in the room where she bathed.

"Your hands are smooth on my arms, gliding on the soap ..."

He kept the mobile to his ear as he picked up the hotel phone and ordered champagne from room service. His heart was pounding in his chest, listening to her. Two glasses, because he needed to have two glasses. He needed to have her, his Ruth, with him. "Harry?" she asked, when she heard him talking. "Just ordering champagne. We're having it together, you and I."

She murmured back, "Oh, good. That sounds lovely."

And when the champagne arrived, he took up the bottle, the two glasses and the flower from the tray, and walked out of his door and down the hall to the room next to his.

Standing at the door, Harry asked Ruth finally to stop. Whispering into the phone, he said, "Come to your door, my Ruth. There's someone waiting there. Someone who loves you very much."

A moment later, the door flew open, and her reaction was more than Harry could have hoped. The robe askew, quickly tied, tantalizingly revealing her wet skin, from which wafted the aroma of lavender. His Ruth, her eyes shining with tears, looking more lovely than he could have imagined.

This was his fantasy, the one he had nurtured night and day for the last week. But now, looking at the heartbreakingly beautiful reality of her, Harry realised he'd underestimated how full his heart would be. It all but took his breath away.

* * *

**CHAPTER FORTY-THREE**

* * *

Her arms whirled round his neck, her kisses warm and wet over his face, his lips, his eyes, wet not just from the bath, but from her tears. His hands were occupied with the bottle and the glasses, so his arms were around her, but he couldn't touch her. Sheer torture with the white softness of her robe, her moist hair, the lovely feel of her just waiting for him to explore.

"Harry! Oh, God, Harry!" Now he couldn't breathe because she was holding him so tightly, laughing, crying, pulling away for a moment to be sure, then back to him, kissing him. He was laughing too, so full of the joy of her that he couldn't speak, and he buried his face in her hair, her neck, kissing her as he moved her gently into the room, finally managing to close the door behind him.

He found a table, gratefully, and safely put down the bottle, the glasses and the flower. His hands went to her face and he kissed her properly, murmuring into her lips, "I love you," as he had on the train, her mouth feeling as he had imagined it then. He wanted her more now than he could ever remember, and the last three hours had heightened his need, like some sort of extended foreplay.

Now the robe had fallen completely open, and it was impossible for his hands not to find their way beneath it, around her to the humid feel of her back under the thick terrycloth. His fingers moved across her skin, still slick from the soap, soft and warm, as he kissed her more urgently.

Ruth was moving backwards, pulling him with her, toward the bed. For a surreal moment, he saw the picture of this exact room on his computer screen at the Grid. Harry felt as if he had stepped into it, like the Looking Glass, and he wondered if it was real. He closed his eyes and kissed her again. _She_ was real, he knew that. His whole body thrilled to being so close to her.

Ruth thought she might be dreaming, but she didn't care. Harry was here, she could feel him, solid under her hands, his fingers touching her lightly, his mouth firmly on hers. When he'd told her to stop talking, whispered to her to come to the door, she could remember saying out loud, "No. It's not possible." She had spoken it as if it were a secret, trying to save herself the horrible disappointment of room service standing there holding something romantic, only some stranger, and not Harry.

She had stepped carefully out of the tub, keeping her hope in check, but her heart was suddenly hammering in her chest, because she felt it was possible, and, in truth, she sensed him near. The joy she felt in his company was overtaking her, and she knew somehow that he was here. That instead of driving to Bath, he had taken the train to her, was outside her door, waiting to give her the only thing she wanted, the gift of himself. She shrugged haphazardly into the robe, and as she peered through the lens a cry escaped her, one that came directly from her heart. "Harry!"

They were beside the bed now, and he unbuttoned his shirt, still kissing her. She undid his belt and his trousers, and within seconds, they lay on the bed, holding each other, skin to skin, finally calming. Each was beginning to believe in the reality of the other, and they sighed finally in the peace of the memory of who they were together. They held there in a gentle kiss, although they both knew that more would come. For right now, even in their need, they wanted just this.

Now Ruth breathed deeply, and pulled away to look at him, tears in her eyes. "How?" was all she said.

Harry laughed, brushing her damp hair from her eyes. "I take it you were surprised?"

Ruth laughed too, holding him tightly against her, brushing the skin of his shoulder with her lips. "Oh, you're here. I dreamt you and you're here." She leant up and kissed him, lightly. "I'm so happy right now, I can hardly _think_."

Returning her kiss, he whispered, "Then don't think, my Ruth." He felt her tremble, not knowing if it was from emotion or the slight chill in the room. Harry moved some of the multiple pillows to the floor, then pulled the covers from under them and they scrambled in, seeking the warmth of each other's bodies. Ruth laid her wet head on his shoulder, and he felt the tickle of the dampness as he breathed in the lavender aroma that he now loved better than any other.

Harry sighed, releasing everything he'd worried about since the idea had first occurred to him. This was the perfect ending of his journey, the one he had imagined. The days apart melted away for him, and he felt as if he'd never been without her. His hand moved to her breast, lightly tracing its contours, and he turned to her as she arched toward him, her mouth seeking his.

They would have the whole night together, and the day tomorrow. They would talk, as they always did, about things that were important and things that were not. He would explain it all to her, how he had accomplished it, what it meant to their future, everything.

But first this. His body told him, first this.

He felt her respond to him, pressing closer. It felt the same in that it was Ruth, her same exquisite body, the taste of her, the way she moved with him. But it was different, more profound, because they'd been apart, and they hadn't known when, or if, they would ever see each other again. Whether they would touch each other, or make love again like this.

The last time they'd seen each other, in the cold, grey desolation of that morning on the dock, they had said goodbye with only the faintest glimmer of hope that a moment like this existed in their future. Now as they made love, they knew that if this was possible, then anything was possible.

They had longed for each other through forty-four suns and forty-four moons crossing the sky. And that longing made every touch, every delicate feeling, every inch of skin more precious.

* * *

Harry stirred to her finger pushing gently on his chest. He opened his eyes and smiled at her, saying softly, "Ruth, you're poking at me."

Her eyes were sparkling, whether with tears or the love they had just made, he wasn't sure. She whispered a question, "Are you real?"

He drew her to him, kissing her, and murmured against her lips, "After what we just did, my love, if you have to ask me that, I think I'll need to work on my technique."

She laughed, and Harry pulled her closer. He felt so warm here, their skin touching under the covers, her limbs soft and pliable, her body filling the spaces next to his. Her voice was muffled against his chest, "I'm afraid to ask how you managed this. So sneaky, Harry, letting me think you were going to Bath."

He chuckled softly, "You're much too smart, Ruth, to attempt to surprise. I had to throw you off the scent. I thought romance might cloud your judgment." He kissed the top of her head. "Now tell the truth. You really had no idea?"

"Absolutely none. However, now, after the fact, I'm thinking I should have." Harry smiled as she began analysing, more natural to her than breathing. He knew she would love the puzzle of it, once the shock wore off, and he loved listening to her mind work. "So the switching phones part, that was in the tunnel, where there's no reception, yes?"

"Correct."

"And when you told the driver, your _new_ driver, about Junction 18, you were speaking to thin air on the Eurostar?" She felt him nod, his amusement rising. Now she turned and looked at him, incredulous. "Did you even _go_ to the River? All that talk about the couples strolling by, the lights of the city?" He shook his head, trying to look guilty, but failing miserably.

"You were at St. Pancras to catch the train, weren't you? Those were the voices I heard." Ruth's eyes grew wide, but there was merriment in them. "Harry! This points to a very devious streak in you!"

Harry finally let his smile have free rein. "I'm a spy, Ruth. It's what I do. Did you not think I knew how?"

"And you asking me to tell you the hotel? The website?" She looked at him, laughing, "You had to work fast, didn't you? And you couldn't have done it alone." Ruth covered her face with her hand, "Oh, God, how many of them know about this?"

Harry put his hands up in front of her so she could see. "Hmmmm, well, there's ... and, then, of course ... and ... " He counted interminably on his fingers, to her mounting horror, and when he started the second round of his left hand, she said, "Harry!" and laughed.

He smiled at her. "Somewhat fewer than that, Ruth. Malcolm, of course, but I told him this time we would prefer he didn't watch the little boxes. Zaf drove me to St. Pancras and cleared me to get on the train, and Tom and Christine are actually having their own weekend in Paris and made sure I was safe from Gare du Nord. So four, plus us."

Something suddenly occurred to Ruth, and she turned serious, her eyes narrowing. "What does this mean, Harry, that you could do this? I know you wouldn't if it put me in any danger, so that must mean that I'm not?" Her brow furrowed. "Is that what it means?"

He knew she was asking a serious question, and he knew he should answer seriously. It was very important, Harry knew that, but he couldn't stop looking at the lines in her forehead, and he couldn't stop his finger from reaching out to smooth them, gently, as he smiled at her. He exhaled sharply as he touched her, and his eyes were soft with love. He took her face in his hands and drew her to him, grazing her forehead with his lips. "I love you." It was all he could manage to say. He knew he needed to focus, but they were here together, the way they had been, and he had missed it so much.

Her brow calmed, and she smiled. "I love you, too." She brought her lips up to his quickly, and then she pulled away again. Her voice was softer this time. "Harry? What _does_ it mean?"

"It means things seem to have ... relaxed a bit, Ruth." He reached over to the floor and retrieved pillows for both of them to put behind their backs. "Mace appears to be gone. No one knows where, but either he was given early retirement and his own form of exile, or he's simply exiled himself." To the question in her eyes, Harry said, "I don't know what that means. No one can find him. But the result of that is that his people seem to be without direction, they've scattered. And that has left me unwatched for the most part."

Harry continued, "For a week, I had Tom, Christine and Zaf taking turns spending every moment I was off the Grid watching me, following, and they saw not a soul. So that part of it may be over, at least for now." Harry reached up and touched her neck, and his head tilted in a question.

She knew what he wanted. Slipping out of bed, she went to the armoire and retrieved the necklace, putting it on. "I don't wear it in the bath." She looked at him sheepishly. "I worry." Ruth climbed quickly back into bed, feeling suddenly shy even in the half-light.

"I've missed seeing it," Harry said, leaning down to kiss the charms. He held his mouth there for a moment longer and she felt him sigh deeply. "I've missed _you_, Ruth."

Stroking his hair, Ruth leant back on the pillows. "Sometimes I want to have you near to me like this so much, that I think I'll lose my mind to it." She curled her finger in the soft strands of hair at his neck. "I want to come home, Harry. I'm not sure I care anymore what it means."

He burrowed his head in her sweet-smelling hair, trying to memorise her. "I want you home." More softly, whispering, he said, "I want you in _my_ home. Every night, every morning." He pulled away and looked in her eyes. "But I do care what it means."

He rolled over so they were side by side, and Ruth curled to face him. "You said yourself that Mace is gone. Doesn't that make it easier?"

"Unfortunately, they're two different issues. My worry was always that Mace had a strong incentive to prove you weren't actually dead, because he's not a man who enjoys being fooled. But the fact is, Ruth Elizabeth Evershed needs to stay deceased until we find out who did kill Maudsley, and who Fox is, because those are the two things of which you were accused."

Harry pulled her close to him, as if holding her would protect her from this truth. "So, in answer to your question, if you walked back in to England as Ruth Evershed, you would be arrested, not only for Maudsley's murder, collusion in the Cotterdam fire and everything that went with it, but also for fraud, fleeing the country, treason and whatever else they could think of."

"What if I stepped into the country as Sophie Persan?"

"Well, yes, Sophie would have an easier time of it, that's certainly true. But Sophie happens to look just exactly like Ruth Evershed. _A rose by any other name_, my love. You couldn't come to London for fear of being seen, and it's my belief you would spend your time peering around corners even in Tweedmouth."

Ruth held him closer, knowing this was as hard for him as it was for her. "I peer around corners in Paris as it is." After a long moment of silence, she sighed deeply. Harry could hear her trying to raise her spirits. "I won't be ungrateful. Having you here right now is more than I'd allowed myself to hope." She turned and looked up into his eyes. "This is wonderful, Harry. Can we do this again?"

Harry kissed her still slightly damp hair. "Yes. " He paused for a moment. " And maybe more."

Ruth thought he had deliberately injected the sound of mystery into that last statement, and now she was intrigued. "You're full of surprises tonight. What do you mean, maybe more?"

Harry had imagined telling her this, but he had to admit he hadn't thought it would be in bed. "Not really pillow talk, Ruth. It's more Grid talk."

Her eyes lit up and she pulled back to look at him. "Does it mean I get to be a spy again? If I have to put my clothes on to hear it, I will." She started to move toward the edge of the bed, and Harry pulled her back, laughing.

"No, don't go. I used to imagine you in briefings this way anyway." Ruth laughed and settled back down, waiting for him to continue. "Ruth, when you said you were getting bored, did you mean it?"

Ruth sighed. "Oh, yes, Harry. I thought when I got on that boat I could never feel bored again, but it didn't take long, did it?"

Harry paused, wondering how to frame this new idea. Then he decided that direct would be best. "Would you like to travel with me somewhere?"

Now she jumped up to sit looking at him, taking most of his covers and holding them discreetly around her. "Oh, Harry, are you serious? God, yes, anywhere with you!"

"You may regret saying that, but I can't get this idea out of my head. You'll need to talk me out of it, and you may want to." He sat up too, leaning back against the pillows.

"Where, Harry?"

"Baghdad."

A bit of the wind went out of her sails. "Baghdad? Not the ideal tourist destination these days, really." Ruth had actually seen an item on the internet that rated hotels there not only by the usual star system, but also on how well they would withstand a bomb blast. "Why Baghdad?"

Harry swung his legs over the side of the bed, and found his trousers on the floor, putting them on as he stood up. "Champagne? It's a shame to have it go to waste." He reached down and found his shirt, and handed it to Ruth, kissing her gently. He said softly in her ear, "Another shirt I can enshrine. I'll remember you in it all day long when I wear it again."

Ruth smiled and put it on, following him to the loveseat, the one that she had cried on just hours ago, thinking she would spend the night alone. The tears were dry, and Harry was here. She watched him open the bottle and pour it out into the champagne flutes, and she couldn't remember being happier.

Harry handed her the glass and snuggled in next to her, his arm round her back. He touched his glass to hers, and said softly, "To my love." Ruth kissed him gently and said, "To _our_ love." They each took a sip and felt the bubbles move down their throats, and Ruth leant over and kissed him more deeply, wanting to taste it with him. Her head began to spin just a little, and she murmured, "White burgundy and thermobaric bombs. Champagne and Baghdad. It doesn't change much, does it, Harry?"

He smiled and put his glass down, moving to kiss her again, "Except that this is a better venue than the restaurant." His hand moved from her thigh to her waist and he felt the soft skin there. She put her hand over his, tenderly, "Later, Harry. You've got me curious, and now you have to complete that thought. Why Baghdad?"

Harry moved reluctantly away and took a deep breath. "Right. Well. I know I told you that I've talked quite a bit with Christine about the CIA, and I said she hadn't told me anything she shouldn't? That's true, but I suppose it's a matter of perspective. I think there are some in the CIA that might think she's told me a bit too much."

Ruth sipped again at her champagne, interested. "What has she told you?"

Picking up his glass, Harry said, "She's given me some information I can't ignore." He leant back against the arm of the loveseat so he could see Ruth better. "She has some old friends, colleagues, that keep in touch with her, and they've fed her something that they wanted her to pass on to someone in England." Ruth waited for him to go on. "There's a clandestine operation planned, of which her friends don't approve. Christine agrees it has to be stopped, so she told me. But this has to be done completely under the radar."

Harry saw Ruth's eyes begin to dance, and he knew she was going to say it. He waited for it, and wasn't disappointed. "Oh, goody," she said.

Harry smiled, and then continued. "So this is the operation. There's a man in the CIA, name is Libby McCall, who we believe is planning to smuggle a large quantity of weapons-grade uranium into Iraq, to Baghdad. Once it's there, it will be miraculously discovered, resulting in panic and mistrust in America and a free ride for the military through the U.S. Congress on a number of issues."

Harry watched Ruth's brow furrow again. She shook her head in disbelief. "Why now, Harry? The war's been going on for, what, three years?"

"It seems there are some converging news investigations that are turning up evidence of fraud in the American Reconstruction effort. Separately, there's a report of mysterious civilian deaths that were motivated by the murder of a Marine, not to mention that the war has been less than successful, and civilian casualties are actually on the rise since it began. There's some bad press coming, and McCall is hoping to create bigger news with the uranium."

Ruth sighed. "Ah, yes, well, weapons grade uranium would be news."

"Smoke and mirrors, a public relations stunt. With uranium. Christ. But most of all, Stateside, it vindicates the war. We're not certain whether or not this is a sanctioned operation, but we do know that the President has no desire for Iraq to be thought of as another Vietnam."

Ruth took his hand in hers. "And you want to stop them. But Harry, you can't do this all on your own. No back-up?"

"I've spoken with the Home Secretary, but he sent me directly up the ladder. I've been given orders to do whatever I can, but I won't have the backing of the Government if something goes wrong. It's too sensitive, and might well be considered none of our bloody business." Harry gave a low chuckle. "Best of both worlds, Ruth. If it works, no one knows. If it fails, I'm hung out to dry." He topped off both of their glasses. "I need to leave the Grid fully staffed while I'm gone, but I need a companion on this one. Will you come?"

"I suppose this tests the 'I'll go anywhere with you' statement." Ruth smiled and took a small pause. "I love you, Harry. Of course I will, but how can I?"

"As I said, this is entirely under the radar. We have private aircraft taking us as far as Polis, Cyprus, where we'll stay the night. Then another will put us in Baghdad. No papers required. But there's no such thing as a safe trip into Baghdad, Ruth."

"I've had safe, Harry. I'm ready to leap out of my skin with safe."

"You're the perfect person to go with me for so many reasons. First of all, much as I know you hate to hear it, you don't exist. Secondly, I need someone else, someone I trust absolutely, to know how this all turns out. It's too dangerous for me to be the only one who knows. And you have skills I don't have, skills of the sort that Malcolm has, that I depend on. My third reason is not germane to the health of the Realm, but it's germane to me." He put his hand up and touched her cheek. "I want you with me. Paris is directly on the way, Ruth. I'm practically passing by your flat."

"I'll wait outside, then, and be ready to grab your hand as you fly by." She laughed. "So, what's the plan?"

"Our plan is to find the uranium, preferably without McCall finding out, and get it out of Iraq. There seems to be some involvement with Indian Intelligence, a freelancer named Amish Mani that McCall has been meeting. Christine has also heard some rumblings about Six. In any case they're all people who have a vested interest in the continuation of the war."

"So, we get it out. Where will it go?"

"There's an abandoned nuclear shelter in Norfolk, was built in the Cold War years. We'll put it there at least until we can sort this out. But the PM and the Home Secretary don't want to hear another word about it. Plausible deniability. So I'll need you to know where it is as well. You and I will be the only ones who know."

Ruth took another sip of champagne, and shook her head. She just couldn't stop the smile, the one that made her eyes laugh when she was doing this work. It had been missing since she went to Paris. "God help me, Harry, it sounds exciting, and important, and so completely different from anything I'm doing now. Will it be dangerous?"

"I know it sounds it, but not really. Adam is fully briefed on this, but he's the only one. Even if we're found out, the CIA isn't going to harm a senior British Intelligence Officer. McCall is looking for good press, not bad. I'm not sure why the Indian Intelligence Bureau is involved, or MI6, but in any case, I should think if we're caught, we'll all sit down and have a nice chat about it. The only thing McCall has going for him is secrecy. Once it's clear he won't be able to use it as a public relations coup, we'll likely slap his hand, have a drink, and go home."

Ruth sighed. "And a night in Cyprus. How wonderful. In Polis, you say?"

"Yes, by the sea. In a small hotel. Do you know why I chose Polis, Ruth?" Harry paused, his eyes holding hers. "Not only is it on a line between Paris and Baghdad, it's near to where Aphrodite and Adonis used to meet."

Ruth smiled, her voice soft. "Yes, I did know that, but you knew I would, didn't you? That's very romantic, Harry. So a moment of peace together in an idyllic setting, before we go into the lion's den? Is that to be the ongoing pattern of this relationship?" She was teasing, but she couldn't keep the hint of anxiety out of her voice.

"We'll be together, my Ruth. We should only be gone a few days, so Isabelle should be able to do without you. And maybe by the time we come back, the others will have made some headway on getting you cleared."

"When will we go, Harry? How soon?"

"Soon. Next week."

* * *

They never finished the bottle of champagne. It sat open, its bubbles disappearing one by one, as they pulled the warmth of the covers around them and lay talking, curled together. The bubbles in the still-filled tub had vanished long ago. Harry's room, with his bag just inside the door, stayed undisturbed.

Harry nuzzled into her neck, telling her stories of Phoebe and Fidget and their domination over poor Scarlet. Ruth laughed and, in turn, told Harry about Paris, with its kind, open people and the delicious, rich aromas of the patisseries and chocolatiers.

And although she had hedged her bets early in the phone call, there was no singing, or reading of 'War and Peace' required. Harry and Ruth each drifted asleep with the other's voice soft in their ears.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR**

* * *

They awakened still curled together. The incredible luxury of opening their eyes to see the person they most treasured, reaching fingers out to find the other there, felt like the stuff of fantasy. But gradually, as they woke, they knew it was real.

"Good morning." Harry whispered softly in her ear, rubbing against her neck.

Ruth smiled sleepily and whispered back, "Mornings don't get any better than this one, Harry." She felt a tear begin to escape, and she moved against the pillow to absorb it. She couldn't look at him right now. Her heart was too full. So she held him close, moving her head under his chin.

_So little time_. Ruth tried to recall the dream that was hovering just on the edge of her memory, the one she'd had last night, lying in his arms. She was on some sort of carousel, with Harry standing off to the side. She saw him once every revolution, fleeting, somewhat blurry as she flew past. She tried to reach out and touch him, but then he was gone, and she just missed him each time. He stood there, smiling, clearly loving her, but they couldn't touch.

Not a dream, a nightmare, really. And much too close to reality.

And what she felt as she woke was just that: _So little time_. She held him now, their skin warm and touching everywhere under the plush hotel duvet. They had held each other all night, breathing the same air, trying even in sleep to steal time together. And still she wanted more. There wasn't enough time to allow things to simply evolve. Ruth didn't know when she would get this chance again, so she made a decision.

She watched her hand on his chest, her fingers tracing circles there as she talked. "What you did last night, Harry, coming to me? I'll never forget it, as long as I live. Not expecting you, and then seeing you, was a happiness I've never felt before. It's far and away the most romantic thing that's ever been done for me."

He started to move, but she stopped him. "No, let me say this, because I need to. What you said on the phone, about how important it was to you that I know you'll always love me, no matter what happens? I feel the same. I want you to know that, too." She paused for so long that she felt him begin to stir, as if he might say something. Before he did, she took a deep breath and said, "What's happened with my house, Harry?"

It was a little too early in the morning for Harry to race with her through this thought process, but it was less of a non-sequitur than he thought. Ruth was moving in an orderly line here, although he didn't know it. He took a breath, and said, "I've kept it, Ruth. For when you come back. I'll pay on it until then."

"But the will we drew up? Before I died? I gave the house to you, yes?" Ruth pulled away now, and rolled over on her stomach so she could look at him. "I want you to see if you can find a buyer for it, Harry. You told me last night that you want me to come live with you? I want to."

As the monumental nature of what she had just said really sunk in, it was too hard to look at him, and Ruth's cheeks coloured spectacularly. She turned again and put her head on his chest, her heart pounding. She felt his heart speed, too, just under her ear.

In truth, Harry was suddenly overcome with an emotion he hadn't expected. Long ago, when he'd asked Jane to marry him, it was done with all the ignorance of youth, the obliviousness that came with not understanding what "the rest of your life" really meant. Now, here with Ruth, he knew exactly what it meant, and his heart was filled with seeing the days stretched out, waking to her, making love, washing dishes, reading the paper, her sweet smile across the table, the ongoing communion with that glorious mind of hers.

He saw it all. It gripped him with the combination of elation and terror that is contained in all things that are simultaneously deeply wished for and frighteningly new. Harry was a man who considered himself to have seen and done it all, and Ruth was continuing to give him new experiences of himself. Here was another, he thought, his heart racing. He was considering doing the thing he said he would never do again. He was inviting a woman into his life.

And yes, he'd been asking it of Ruth, right up to their last moments on the dock. But now she was accepting him, and Harry suddenly realised that the asking and the acceptance were entirely different things.

He felt her move away from him, just slightly. "Harry, you're taking too long to answer." Her voice got a little smaller. "Did I misunderstand you?"

His reaction was immediate. "No. No, you didn't misunderstand, Ruth. Yes, I've asked you. Over and over, feels like. Thought I might have been becoming a bit of a pest, actually." He pulled her closer to him, speaking firmly into her hair, "Yes, I want it, more than I can tell you. I don't know what I was just feeling. Nerves, I suspect."

Ruth rolled over and could look at him again. "You, too? Thank God. Scary, isn't it?" Now she was animated, speaking quickly. "It's like hurtling off a mountain, but I don't want to be anywhere else, or with anyone else. You told me about the cats last night, and I was jealous of them, Harry!" Ruth laughed, "They sleep on your bed, on _my_ bloody side of the bed, thanks, and I want to be there."

Harry couldn't keep the surprised look off his face. This was all incredible to him, on so many levels. As if from a distance, he heard himself say, resolutely and without hesitation, "And I want you there."

They just looked at each other for a moment, and then both smiled. Ruth moved up into his arms and kissed him. "Well, that's that then."

They lay in stunned silence for a time. There were pictures forming in their heads that didn't need to be shared, not yet anyway. Ruth wondering where in the hell her clothes would go, with all those ties to keep straight. Harry wondering how she would put up with his habits and his moodiness. And, in the end, none of those things mattered.

The feeling they both shared in this moment was happiness, although their confusion made it difficult to truly enjoy. When you move through your days thinking something can never happen, and then it does, preparation is lacking. And Harry and Ruth were two people who liked to be prepared.

Harry was _so_ overcome that he almost leapt completely off the cliff and asked her to marry him. The words were there, but somehow they just wouldn't come out. In the end, he told himself he'd scaled enough mountains for one day, and should just leave well enough alone. She wasn't moving in tomorrow, after all, although he thought he might like that very much.

The silence lengthened, with Harry staring at the ornate white ceiling of the hotel room, and Ruth surveying every inch of Harry's chest. But neither of them were in the room, really. They were both walking through Harry's house, room by room, imagining the other there.

Both were also, if they were completely honest, imagining a day in the future when they might stand in front of others and finally speak the secret aloud. Harry wondered if Ruth would take his name, and Ruth wondered how nervous Harry would be. Both believed in marriage. Harry because he knew this time it would be so different, and that his Ruth deserved that ultimate commitment from him. Ruth because it meant pledging yourself to someone you trusted with your whole heart, and to her, that someone was the man she held right now.

Finally, Harry took a sudden deep breath, so deep in fact, that it was as if he had been under water for a long time, and he realised he hadn't been breathing much in the last few minutes. It was so loud that Ruth looked up at him, and when she did, his face was so stricken that she began laughing. Which then got him laughing.

She circled him with her arms, and said, "You okay, Harry?"

He exhaled. "Christ, I think so. What did we just decide?" The laughter was cathartic, and he felt so much better.

Ruth breathed now, too. "I think we just decided to cohabitate." She looked up at him, still laughing, "Big decision, really. Did we get enough sleep to make a decision like that? Are we under duress?"

He turned to her, still smiling, but he was serious now. "I want it, Ruth. I want all the clichés. To wake up with you every morning, and fall asleep with you every night. I want to see you in my kitchen ... in _our_ kitchen, as we make omelettes together. I want to be reading a book with my bloody glasses on my nose, and look up to find you there, peering at me the way you do when you really love me."

She leant up and kissed him, "Which is all the time."

He laughed, "We'll see about that. Tell me the same thing after you've lived under the same roof with me for awhile. I'm not easy, Ruth."

Ruth touched her fingers to his cheek. "I know all about you, Henry James Pearce. Neither of us is easy. And while you're seeing all those lovely clichés, you might want to throw in a fight or two, just for a little touch of reality. I might not like the way you make omelettes, and I may be irritated by your feet on the table while you read. But I'll never love you any less than I do right now, and that's more than you can imagine."

Harry took her face in his hands and kissed her, lightly. When he pulled away, his eyes were so full of love that Ruth felt it move through her with a palpable warmth. "I love you, Ruth. From this moment forward, I'll have trouble imagining the house without you in it. Come live with me, then. Make it _our_ house. Tell me I snore, and to take out the rubbish, and love me still."

"I will, Harry. And you can tell me how bloody particular I am, and that the cat fuzz needs tending, and that perhaps I don't have to be right _every_ time. And you can love me still."

"I will, Ruth."

The symbolism of the words they'd just said, and how they'd said them, was not lost on either of them. They both knew that what they had decided would be on hold until Ruth's situation was sorted out, and both knew that, of course, it made the words easier to say. But they had said them, and it was no small thing.

Harry kissed his way slowly across her brow, then eyes, then cheeks, until he found her lips. This time, they made love tenderly, not with a sense of need, but with a feeling of the commitment they'd just made. It was a commitment to the type of love designed to last forever.

* * *

She finally got to see him shave, and it was a good, old-fashioned shave, which was what she had hoped. Now she knew why he always smelled so wonderful. Edwin Jagger natural sandalwood shave soap, genuine badger hair shave brush, all-metal Chatsworth Range double-edged razor. Nothing but the best for that face.

Ruth sighed, her mouth slightly open, as if he were making love to her again. "Cripes, it's like watching a dance, it's so beautiful," she said softly at his shoulder. "I almost hear music, Harry."

He laughed, pulling the razor away just in time. "What _is_ the appeal with women of watching men shave? It's a daily chore, you know?" He lifted his chin, careful while he talked not to cut himself. "Instead of the Grand Tour, maybe I'll take you to an island somewhere. We'll live in a thatched hut and I'll grow a beard Robinson Crusoe would covet."

"I'd love you just as much." She kissed him on the bare shoulder and started the water running to warm it, pulling the curtain round the tub. No bath today, as Harry told her they didn't have time. She hadn't protested, because they both knew what baths led to in their history. She dropped the robe and stepped in.

Harry finished shaving as she showered, occasionally wiping the rapidly rising steam from the mirror. After a time, Ruth put her head out of the curtain and asked the question she hadn't asked yet. "How long do we have, Harry?"

"I go back tonight. I don't want to, but I also don't want to push our luck. I'm on the 9:13 train. But remember, we have next week." He leant over and kissed her face, leaving some musky shave cream on her cheek in the process.

"Okay." Ruth ducked back through the curtain as he wiped his face with a towel, and Harry raised his voice so she could hear him. "But my room is booked for tonight as well, so there won't be another check-out time looming over our heads." He peeked through the shower curtain, and smiled at the lovely sight of her. "I told you we were having lunch out, but I didn't tell you the rest."

She smiled at him and pulled the curtain closed. "Privacy, please. Item number one for living together, remember to lock the bathroom door."

"Good God, Ruth, starting the list already?" To himself, he muttered, laughing, "Oh, Harry, you're in trouble, and you've no one but yourself to blame."

"Did you say something?"

He answered quickly and in a much louder voice to carry over the shower. "Just wondered if you weren't curious to know what we're doing?"

"The Louvre? You owe me that, you know."

"No, that's for another time. I'm not sure I could share you with the Masters today," Bravely, he pulled the curtain aside once more, his voice low and seductive, "Not for the time it takes to see everything I want to see."

Ruth laughed and pushed his face away with a very wet hand. "Everything you want to see _here_, or there, Harry?" She turned off the shower, finally giving up. "Okay, I'll get ready, and you can just surprise me." She stepped out as he handed her a towel. "I like your surprises." Wrapping the towel around her, Ruth moved toward him and kissed him.

Harry smiled against her lips, "Mmmmm, I seem perpetually to be getting wet kisses from you, my Ruth. Not quite like after a lavender bath, but the hotel soap is nice, too."

"As is your shaving cream. We do smell good, and if we hadn't already, I might be tempted to take you to bed." She pulled away quickly and began walking toward the armoire. "But I'm hungry."

Harry laughed, shaking his head as he followed her. "Why does this not surprise me?"

* * *

**CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE**

* * *

The cafe was lovely, as if it appeared straight off a Parisian postcard. Harry managed to find a place that felt private and out of the way, but still offered Ruth's favourite pastime of people-watching. They had only been there for a few minutes when Ruth heard a lovely, familiar voice behind her.

"Hello, stranger." She turned and her mouth opened in delight.

"Tom!" Ruth stood and put her arms around him, laughing. "Oh, it's good to see you! I've missed you!"

Tom laughed too, and whispered to her, "Hey, I'm not the one who died, you know." He held her at arm's length, surveying her. "You look pretty good, for that."

Ruth smiled over at Harry, who was standing to greet them. "Harry has restorative powers." She held the look for longer than she might have intended, but Harry's soft smile wouldn't let her look away.

Tom glanced at Christine, who stood beside him. It was the first time they'd seen Harry and Ruth together since before Tom had left the Grid. Christine smiled up at Tom and nodded her head slightly. _Over the moon, no question about it_.

Ruth finally turned and gave Christine a warm hug, saying, "The phone call was great. Thanks for that."

Christine smiled back, "Got a little more than you bargained for, though, didn't you?"

Ruth laughed as she turned to sit down again. "God help me, three spies conspiring against me. I didn't stand a chance."

When they were all seated, the waiter came over for their drink order. Harry wanted to celebrate, so he chose a bottle of very good champagne for them to share.

Harry turned to Ruth and said, "I didn't think you'd mind if we had company for lunch."

Ruth beamed a radiant smile at Tom and Christine. "God, no. This is wonderful. I've lived in Paris for over a month and have only eaten alone or with Isabelle." She looked back at Harry. "You're making memories for me, aren't you? Here, in Paris."

Harry took her hand in his. "Yes. And for me, _with_ you here in Paris." The champagne came and the glasses were poured out. Harry raised his glass, and said, looking at Ruth, "To the fourth chair, finally filled."

They touched four glasses in the centre of the table and Ruth felt she was part of a community for the first time since she came to Paris. She turned to Harry and tilted her head slightly, her eyes soft, thanking him. She was so used to communicating with him in public using only her eyes, that she didn't even think of coming right out and saying it. But without so much as a glance to Tom and Christine, he leant over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

In public, in a cafe, in front of friends. An acknowledging kiss, done so easily, so casually. Something that people do every day. Her mind travelled from the moment she had asked Harry to keep their secret, there in his house in her slippers and pyjamas, to this moment now, exiled in Paris. They had kissed in Henley-on-Thames and in Bath, but they were the banker and the shopgirl then, unknown to the people who passed by. They had kissed in front of Adam and Zaf, but that was on Regents Hill, a spy's meeting place, and still secret.

Somehow this was different, and Ruth finally let go of the pledge they had made to each other in Harry's house that night. Completely, once and for all. She would love him and everyone could see, and damn the consequences. She put down her glass, placed her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him, properly. Not a long kiss, not a deep one, but one that was unmistakeable. One that left Harry rather flustered, his eyes dancing.

Christine took Tom's hand under the table and squeezed it gently. She didn't need to say it, and he didn't need to hear it. They were both thinking the same thing. This is why they were working so hard to get Ruth home.

Picking up her glass again, Ruth had a somewhat defiant look, mixed in with pure joy. She felt powerful, new, the opposite of helpless. It was a very good feeling. One more glance at Harry, and then she turned, looking at Christine and Tom. "So where are you staying in Paris?"

"Britannique, same as you," Tom said. "Couple of floors below. Thanks for choosing such a nice place, by the way." He smiled at her, that wonderful Tom smile that seemed to fill the width of his face. "Didn't know until last night where we'd be staying."

Ruth laughed and put her head in her hand, "Cripes, what a production number this was. Black ops have nothing on you lot. I just thought I was having a quiet night away from the flat. Had no idea I'd be trailing an entourage."

Christine smiled and said, "Well, this beats the hell out of white collar crime surveillance in Liverpool. It's been a little second honeymoon for us. Except when I was here to see you, Ruth, I can't remember the last time I was in Paris. And the last time we were here together?" She looked at Tom.

"Hmmm, last year, April?" Tom looked over at Ruth. "Long time. We love it here." He looked back at Christine and took her hand up and kissed it. "We should come here more often."

Harry smiled at Ruth. "See what I've had to put up with? Dinners with these two, with me as the definition of the third wheel." He took Ruth's hand and kissed it, giving Tom a sly look, which was promptly returned. "Get to give them some of their own medicine, now you're here, my Ruth."

The waiter arrived, took their orders, and filled their glasses all around.

Ruth sipped her champagne. "And how do you like Liverpool? Your business is good?" She was asking because she cared, of course, but she couldn't forget what Harry had said about the possibility of her working there someday.

Tom shrugged slightly, "I can't say we're setting the world on fire, but we've got business enough. Small brick building just down from John Moores University. We say we either run the business from our home, or we live over the shop. Either way, it's a bloody fabulous commute."

"And Malcolm came to visit you?"

Christine laughed, "He's amazing. Practically the perfect man. Fixes computers while reciting poetry. How is it that he's not married?"

Tom nodded. "A godsend for our computer system. Held together with string and sticky plasters, and now there's nothing we can't do. Seemed like all he did was touch it and he knew what was wrong, that sixth sense of his."

Harry looked at Tom in mock warning. "No stealing him from me until I'm ready, Tom. I have a feeling when he decides to retire from the Grid, he'll make a beeline to Liverpool." Harry turned to Ruth. "He stayed in a hotel by the sea and came back talking about how his mother would love it there. Said he'd made his way through a book a day and felt absolute peace. I fear he may be planning his escape."

Ruth laughed. "You'd be lucky to have him. I always felt we were." For a moment, a cloud passed over Ruth's face, and everyone saw it. She sighed, and looked down at her hands. Then she looked at Harry, and said, "You are. I was. Can't seem to keep my tenses straight." She looked up at Tom and Christine and said, "Sorry."

Tom took her hand across the table. "Don't be. We know, Ruth. You despair of ever having a real life and then you leave the Services and suddenly you've got one, but you don't quite know how to live it. We know."

His eyes held hers, and Ruth could only think how good he looked. No more of the horrible conflict on his face, his eyes clear and bright. He had been a brilliant officer, one of the best, but he cared too much about the little things, like people. He lost sight of the bigger picture, the one that Harry had described as "the scale." That the thousands of people who might be killed by a bomb outweighed one sleeper who had the power to stop it. It was good that Tom left, because he looked truly happy now.

Ruth looked down again. "That's exactly how I feel, Tom. But there's a difference between us. I still want to be there. I miss it so much I can hardly stand it sometimes. I don't know what to do with myself." She looked up at him. "As I said to you once, 'I'm an analyst with nothing to analyze.'"

Tom, smiling, released her hand slowly and took a sip from his glass. "Adrenaline withdrawal." He looked over at Harry, his eyebrows raised. "Isn't that what you called it, Harry?"

"Yes." Harry was glad this was coming up here, and he had assumed it would. A little peer therapy never hurt, and Tom and Christine were two who had not only survived, but thrived. Just in case Ruth could never come back to the Grid, just in case she ended up working for a time at Trans Atlantic Security, he wanted her to know she had people who understood.

Not everything Harry did had an underlying purpose, but this lunch did. Actually a number of them. To give her some happiness with friends in Paris. To let her get to know Tom and Christine, whom he liked enormously. But also to set up a connection for her with two friends who had gone through what she was going through now. It was why he was being so quiet. He sat and sipped his champagne, and listened.

Christine sat back in her chair, "You learn to replace it, I think. The adrenaline goes away and you start to understand that it was artificial, like drinking too much coffee. I guess you could say we're in adrenaline recovery. One day at a time."

She smiled at Ruth, continuing. "But we have our little excitements now and then. Just last week someone tried to ferry out to the Isle of Man with some industrial intellectual property and we had a good old fashioned chase, right up to the dock." She looked over at Tom, who was gazing at her as she spoke, and so clearly loved her. "Just like real spies."

Ruth smiled, and really meant it. She so liked these two. "The woman I work for, Isabelle, is a fantastic person. She's had a very full life, and now she sits surrounded by books in such tranquillity. I sometimes wish I could be happy with that life, and I imagine someday I will be. When I have a life to look back on, like she does." Ruth put her hand over Harry's on the table, and looked penetratingly at him. "Isabelle had a long and happy marriage, with a husband she adored, and that feeds her soul still, I suspect."

Harry took a deep breath and then exhaled, just looking at her. Something had changed, right here at the table, and now he knew what it was. Ruth wasn't hiding anymore, wasn't holding anything back. She wasn't awkward, shy, or secretive. Her eyes were clear and open, the way they were after they made love, the way they looked when she really wanted to convince him that she loved him without a doubt.

And because he knew this Ruth wouldn't mind, he simply said it, out loud. A man telling his friends the good news. Except he hadn't turned to Tom and Christine. His eyes were still locked on Ruth's. "When Ruth comes back to England, she's agreed to move in with me." He took her hand and kissed it. "And one of these days, I'm going to marry her, if she'll have me."

In the silence that ensued, it seemed the only one at the table who was truly surprised he said it was Harry. The other three simply smiled at him, although Ruth's cheeks turned a lovely shade of strawberry. He had already alluded to it so many times, and she'd put him off, saying to wait, but now she asked herself, wait until when? Truth be told, after the decision they had made this morning, and the words they had spoken, she almost felt married. Hadn't they each said "I will"?

So her eyes still on Harry's, she said softly, "One of these days, she just might."

After a moment, Tom laughed, shaking his head, "I wouldn't be anywhere else on the planet right now. That was amazing."

When Harry looked at him, still a bit shell-shocked, Tom said, "Harry, you just proposed, you old dog. And you bloody did it in front of witnesses." He reached over and clasped Harry's hand from the table, shaking it, smiling broadly, "No wriggling out of this one. Done deal." He was still chuckling as he leant over to Harry. "And I'm pretty sure she said yes."

Tom gave his wife a kiss for good measure, and then looked back at Harry and Ruth, who hadn't moved. "It's about damn time, you two." He picked up his glass, which was empty, and looked over at the bottle which had been upended in the bucket. "Bloody hell, this requires more alcohol." He caught the eye of the waiter and ordered another.

Harry and Ruth hadn't moved yet, but now Ruth leant over and kissed him.

After a moment, she put her lips near his ear and said, tenderly, "I did say yes, Harry."

* * *

The second bottle was upended in the bucket before they finally pushed away from their plates, satisfied. They hadn't laughed too loudly, but they had laughed a lot. They were good together, the four of them, as Harry knew they would be, as he had imagined through his multiple dinners as the third wheel with the empty fourth chair.

The bottle of champagne that Tom ordered came quickly, and at just about the same time, the food arrived. So there was no more evidence that a proposal had been made and accepted. Except, of course, for Tom's joviality, Christine's soft smiles, and the immeasurable love that shone in both Harry and Ruth's eyes every time they looked at each other, which was somewhat less than every minute or thereabouts.

It was nearly four in the afternoon when they stood, Harry and Tom shaking hands, Ruth and Christine hugging, promising another meal, hopefully in London but if not, in Paris, soon. Then they switched, and Ruth hugged Tom with great affection, hearing him whisper in her ear, "Congratulations, Ruth. I've never seen him so happy." And Christine and Harry exchanged a light hug, as new friends do. Then the two couples separated.

The four of them would meet in the lobby of the hotel in time for the 9:13 train at Gare du Nord, with a stop off at Ruth's flat to drop her. So Harry and Ruth had nearly four hours left, four precious hours together.

There was one last thing Harry wanted to do before they went back to the hotel. It was something that Sophie had mentioned in one of her letters: "_I suppose if one must be desperately without the love of one's life, then Paris is a beautiful place to do it, but it does come served up on a double-edged sword. I haven't ventured out to the typical lovers' spots, the boat ride on the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, la Passerelle des Arts, primarily to avoid the ever-present couples strolling there... So I will wait to do the romantic things in Paris until I have company approaching."_

There wasn't time to do the first two, the Seine or the Tower, but he could take her to the bridge. La Passerelle des Arts, a lovely bridge whose length across the river was used occasionally for showing all manner of sculpture, prints, and drawings. A bridge with benches overlooking the water, and Harry loved the idea of sitting on a bench with Ruth here in Paris. He thought benches were marvellous inventions. Something about the privacy of the restrained space within the public thoroughfare.

It was only a five-minute walk from the cafe to the bridge, and then another ten minutes back to the hotel. There was an exhibit on the Passerelle today, and it happened that they were a lovely set of photographs of couples in film: Bogart and Bacall, Montand and Signoret, Gable and Lombard. Harry and Ruth strolled hand-in-hand, and found a bench that was free in the middle of the bridge. Much of the bench was wasted, as they sat very, very close.

They looked out at the water in silence for a time, and when Harry looked at Ruth, he was surprised to see one small tear make its way slowly down her cheek. He resisted the impulse to kiss it, or wipe it away, or bring any attention to it at all. Instead he watched it, the light from the sun low in the sky reflected in a windowed rectangle on its surface. It got smaller and smaller as it left a trail of moisture on her skin, until finally, it threatened to disappear altogether, and only then did he allow himself to kiss the spot where it lay.

She turned with a smile, saying, "You know I'm happy, not sad?"

Now he kissed her lips, slowly, tenderly. "Yes."

She smiled, looking back out at the water. "Don't you think it's interesting, Harry, that after all our secrets, you proposed to me in a public place, and in front of others? It was perfect, really. I wouldn't have wanted it to be any other way." Now she turned back to him, her eyes moist and gentle on his, "It was beautiful, and simple, and very much us."

The wonder in his voice was still evident, "You said yes."

Ruth laughed, but tears weren't far away. "Yes. I said yes."

Now he kissed her, enfolding her in his arms, a deep kiss in the middle of a bridge full of people. And those walking by saw the couple and knew they were very much in love. Not one of those passing by would have been surprised to learn the question that had been asked and answered just this afternoon. This looked to be a kiss to begin a lifetime together.

* * *

They walked back to the hotel with three hours left, and neither could push time far from their minds. It was different, though, because Harry would be back so soon. Today was Sunday, and he would be at Ruth's doorstep on Thursday. From there they would travel by car to Le Bourget, the small airport where they would board a private plane to Polis, Cyprus.

And then they would have four nights together, split between Cyprus and Baghdad. All that time with Harry, and essentially Ruth would be working again for MI5. After the peace and routine of her life recently, it made Ruth's head spin somewhat, as if she had stood up too suddenly and felt faint.

As they went up in the lift to his room this time, Ruth looked at Harry beside her, and she loved him with all of her being. She studied him unabashedly, the light furrows of his forehead, the softness of his hair just slightly over his ears, the curls at the back of his neck, the fullness of his lips, the corners of his eyes where the skin crinkled as he smiled at her, and then, as he wondered what she was thinking, the two vertical lines that formed just to the inside of his eyebrows, their blonde and brown hairs almost invisible above the deep brown of his eyes.

She reached out and put her palm on the side of his face, the face she had watched him shave this morning, the skin soft, with just the trace of whisker. She moved across his chin, strong and round, and trailed down his throat, above the unbuttoned collar, to touch the space where she could rest her finger and feel his heartbeat. She felt grateful to that heart, that it continued to work as it should, to keep alive this precious man, whose skin was so warm from the blood that flowed through it, and whose eyes looked at her with such tenderness.

She saw his lips begin to move to form a word, pressing together and then apart, the word _what?_, the question he was asking about the look on her face. No doubt the seriousness of her eyes was beginning to concern him. Ruth put a finger to his lips to quiet him, and she felt his warm breath on her skin. She was studying him the way a sculptor would, memorising his contours and angles so that she could find them again in her mind when he was no longer with her.

She was having the same feeling she'd had in Bath, before things had gone so terribly wrong. The feeling that she would lose him somehow, that she was still on that circling carousel, and he would blur and move out of her reach, that this moment now was all she had to burn his face into the space behind her eyes, so she could remember.

Ruth replaced her finger with her lips and kissed him, feeling the incredible softness and warmth there, the way his lips yielded to the pressure she placed on them. His response was to put his arms around her, and now there was the feel of his chest against her breasts, his fingers threading gently through her hair. He parted his lips slightly, giving her the heady taste of champagne, and she responded with a soft sigh that rose above the distant sound of the lift.

Ruth pulled away, her lips still just touching his, her eyes still closed, and said, "I love you, Harry." He pulled her closer to him, speaking with his lips against her cheek, and she could feel the emotion in his chest, the trembling in his voice. "I love you, Ruth."

Of all their moments together, this was one that Ruth would remember on the coldest of her nights alone. When he was far away and it seemed there was no more hope, when she thought she had lost him forever, when she did what he begged her to do and moved on, when she started a new life. In the desperate, desolate moments of that new life, she remembered this minute in the lift of the Hotel Britannique in Paris, on the day he had asked her to marry him and she had said yes.

In this moment, they loved each other so fully that they couldn't imagine anything else existed. But the world is a dangerous place, and Harry's world more dangerous even than most. There was only one reason he would ever give up his Ruth, and that would be to save her.

They still had time together, many days and weeks and months, but the carousel was turning, inexorably, relentlessly toward a future that neither of them could prevent.

For now, Ruth again pushed down the dread. She followed him into his room, the one they had quickly moved into before leaving for lunch. Before the door had clicked closed, they were in each other's arms. They had a little under three hours, and they would spend every second of it wrapped together.

They made love tenderly at first and then hungrily, and after, they lay talking, planning their future, redecorating Harry's house, and deciding where her things would go. They talked of white dresses, rings, and poetry readings, of the pros and cons of a Grand Tour honeymoon, or the one with the thatched hut and the beard. They laughed, and they loved each other well.

Tom and Christine watched them kiss goodbye on the rainy pavement outside Ruth's flat on the Rue de Banquier. When the green door closed finally, and Harry got back in the car, Tom leant forward and placed a consoling hand on his friend's shoulder.

Harry shrugged, and said, "Only four days this time." Harry was making a good show of it, but Tom could see the shine of tears in his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER FORTY-SIX**

* * *

Anassa Hotel looked over one of the loveliest beaches in Cyprus. Off in the distance, across Chrysochous Bay, was the Akamas Peninsula, a nature conservation area, wild and undeveloped. The Akamas walking trails led to a waterfall and a pool beneath it called the Bath of Aphrodite, where myth described the goddess of love taking her own holidays when the toil of bringing lovers together became too strenuous.

Ruth knew this mythology by heart, and she gazed across the magnificent vista imagining Aphrodite rising from the water, rested and relaxed, ready to face another round of star-crossed lovers. Ruth held Harry's hands at her waist as he stood behind her, his chin light on her shoulder.

She didn't know how long they had been standing there watching the ripples of the water in the distance and feeling the warm breeze of emerging summer, but she was still trying to think of the names of all the colours of blue they were seeing, so they were playing a game. Harry whispered softly in her ear, and Ruth answered him. _Azure. _Indigo._ Navy. _Cornflower._ Aquamarine. _Teal_. Royal. _Cerulean_. Sapphire. _Steel_. Electric ... _

Ruth paused, smiling, her mind working, "Erm ... oh, wait ... I know there have to be more ..."

Harry laughed softly, still whispering, "Have I stumped the analyst? Can it be ...?"

Suddenly she inhaled and said, "Periwinkle!"

"Ah, in the nick of time ...." He thought, too. "Ultramarine?"

"No, you said aquamarine already. Marine is marine. Cheating, Harry."

"Wait ...erm ... powder!"

She turned and looked at him, laughing. "_Powder_ blue, Harry? A big, strong man like you? What would they think on the Grid?" Harry pulled her to him and held her tight, both of them laughing.

"You tell a soul, and I'll tell them you talk in your sleep."

Ruth pulled away quickly. She was trying to be serious, but she wasn't entirely successful. "I don't. What do I talk about?"

Harry suddenly looked very grave, putting on his best Section Head face. He shook his head, "Tut, tut. Sordid stuff, can't repeat it." He buried his face in her neck as she began to laugh again.

"Now you _have_ to tell me. The truth, Harry. Do I?"

He raised his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. "No, my love, not a word. Just teasing, in my desperation over the possibility of you switching the red for _powder _blue in my office."

"Harry. Who knew you were so mad? All these years, serious Harry Pearce. I could count on one hand how many times I heard you laugh, and now, cripes, I can't stop you." She took his hand and led him to the table as she sat down.

Harry said, "Your fault entirely. You've made me happy." He sat down, too, across from her.

Ruth took a kalamata olive and popped it in her mouth, chasing it with a cucumber slice. She looked at him with soft eyes, "Well, as I've no intention of making you unhappy, I suppose I'll have to put up with it." She raised another olive and he nodded. She put it in his mouth. "I love you , Harry. Have I said that today?"

He hadn't entirely finished the olive, so his words came out a bit muffled, "Not excessively. No more than ... mmm ... twenty times. Not _too_ many times certainly. I could do with another."

"I love you."

"I love you, too, my Ruth."

She broke away from his gaze and looked back out at the water. "This doesn't feel like work. For one, the view is better."

"The minute you're back on the Grid, I'll put up a mural for you. This very scene, right where you can see it."

Ruth looked back at him, smiling. "I love the way you say that, 'when you're back on the Grid,' as if it's a given."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "It is. I see you there." He looked at her sideways, "And I think you're wearing ... ah, _blue_. _Cambridge_ blue."

Ruth laughed, "Aha! Good one. _Cobalt_ blue. I was saving that for an emergency."

Harry looked around again, thinking, and then, clearly desperate, picked up a chunk from the appetiser tray. "Bleu cheese."

Throwing a cucumber slice at him, Ruth laughed, "Cheating. Again! I'm learning more and more about you." She narrowed her eyes, and forced herself to look stern. "I'm not sure marrying you is such a good idea. You're devious, and you've been known to cheat at games."

Harry leant back, smiling. "Well, you won't be interested in what I have to give you, then. Shame." Harry looked out at the sea.

"What?" When he ignored her and shook his head, Ruth stood up and walked around behind him. She leant down and blew softly just behind his ear. "What, Harry?" Her voice was low, seductive, and her mouth was grazing his ear lobe.

"Now who's cheating?" He said softly, closing his eyes.

"What do you have for me?" she asked, as she began to move down his neck with kisses.

"Mmmmm, you're good, Ruth. I'd forgotten about your talent for interrogation." He turned and stood up, bringing her with him. Kissing her lightly on the lips, he said, "Wait here."

While she waited, she poured another glass of chardonnay for the two of them, and took the two glasses over to a wicker loveseat with brightly flowered cushions, facing out to the sea. A private terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. She didn't even want to think what it cost.

Harry assured her this was a personal expense, and that the Services would begin paying in Baghdad. They would have separate rooms in the hotel there, but here, they were free to do what they wished. _Free_. How inadequate that word seemed.

From the moment they had stepped off the plane at Paphos Airport she'd felt like she was on holiday. They'd gained an hour flying after leaving early in the morning, so the whole afternoon was laid out in front of them. A lovely day with Harry in Paradise. That thatched hut honeymoon was looking better and better.

A lunch of Cypriot _meze_, the traditional revolving buffet, small savoury hot and cold dishes, vegetables and meats that kept appearing on the table until the sated patrons implored them to stop. Eggplant salad, hummus, fresh fish, cheese, all topped off with Cypriot coffee, a strong, muddy liquid with grounds still in the bottom, rich and full-bodied as the meal.

By the time they finished, Harry and Ruth wanted nothing more than a nap, so they fell on the bed into each other's arms and went fast asleep, the sheer curtains billowing almost over their heads in the warm breeze off the sea. Another world, and pure happiness. And now, waiting for Harry, Ruth smiled and closed her eyes against the setting sun.

Her eyes were still closed when he returned to the terrace holding a small box. He put his arms around her and dropped the box lightly into her hand. She opened her eyes and looked at it, and then tilted her head up toward him. "I might have an idea what this is, Harry. Would I be right?"

He moved around and sat next to her on the loveseat. "You might be right, but you might not know what makes it very special."

She opened the box, and yes, as she suspected, it was a ring. Not gold, but silver. Almost filigree, she thought, with an exquisitely delicate openwork pattern that seemed arbitrary until she looked more closely. Then, with a sharp breath, she realised what it was. Numerous charms, H's and R's, were joined together almost invisibly in random patterns between the two thin bands that set the width of the ring. Tiny charms, the same ones she wore on her necklace.

She looked at him, her mouth open, as he enjoyed her reaction. He took the ring out of the box and placed it gently on her third finger, left hand. "It's not a proper engagement ring, it's a promise ring of sorts. I want you to be able to wear it, and not have to hide it away somewhere. There will be a diamond waiting for you in England when you come home to me." He kissed the ring on her finger, which fit perfectly.

Ruth looked at it, her eyes glistening. Then she looked at Harry, "How? You went to Bath? When?"

"I had the idea weeks ago, and called it in to the jeweller. But I didn't have your size, and not being good at that sort of thing, I had to wait until I saw you for him to finish it."

"But you never asked me my size, Harry. How did you know?"

"I slipped a piece of paper round your finger while you slept in Paris, and then called him with the measurement. He finished it, and sent it overnight." Harry looked very proud of himself, smiling at her like the Cheshire Cat.

Ruth looked at him, marvelling. "Harry, will our life together always be this surprising? I'm in a constant state of wonder with you lately."

Harry shook his head solemnly. "Definitely not. I can't possibly keep this up." He kissed her tenderly on the lips. "I'm expecting to become predictable at any moment."

She put her arms around him and pulled him close. "It's lovely. It's perfect." Pulling away, she looked at him. The setting sun had turned the sky gold, and the colour was reflected on his face. His skin had a burnished tone, his brown eyes turning amber. She looked down at the ring, and held it up in the fading sunlight.

"I'm glad you like it, my Ruth. Silver for now, gold for later," Harry said softly.

She smiled at him. "I'm not sure you'll ever convince me to take this one off. I can't tell you how much it means to me." As the angled light touched it, the open spaces of the ring took on new shapes, a complex weave of dark and light. "Just two letters, H and R, to make all those patterns. Complicated patterns."

Harry smiled ruefully. "We're complicated people." He sighed. "At least we seem to lead complicated lives."

Ruth looked out at the view and then looked back at Harry. "Life doesn't feel very complicated today, Harry. It feels blissfully simple." She brushed her lips lightly across his. "Tell the jeweller, will you, how much I love it?"

"You'll tell him yourself, soon, Ruth. We'll go there first thing after we get you home." He played with a lock of her hair, and raised his eyebrows. "Maybe we should be married in Bath? We never talked about where, did we?"

Ruth turned to look out at the ocean, leaning into him. "How about here? Can we get married here?"

Harry looked at her, his face serious. "Now? Today?"

She turned quickly and looked at him to see if he meant it, and she could see, absolutely, that he did. She tilted her head, imagining a wedding here, and then she sighed. Putting her hand on his cheek, she said, "You don't know how close I was just then to saying yes." Ruth shook her head slightly. "No, I want people around us. I want a party, Harry. A big, crazy, happy celebration. In England."

"That's what we'll have, then." The sun was now only half a circle where it met the sea on the horizon, and it was sinking quickly. Ruth curled her feet up under her and leant her head on his chest as he put his arm around her. They watched it as best they could, squinting against its brilliance, amazed that they could actually see it get smaller.

Ruth spoke softly, as if she were in a church. "Don't you find it incredible, Harry, seeing the sun disappear like that? But it's not moving, we are. We're on this big, turning thing. Turning away from it. When you look at it like this, you can see the Earth move, feel it rotating in space. It makes me feel so small."

He tightened his arm around her, still keeping his eyes on the horizon. "It always makes me feel like I'm starting fresh. That no matter what happened on this day, everything begins again tomorrow."

Now it was just a tiny sliver over the water, shimmering, and the sky was darkening. Ruth sat up and turned to look at him, a tiny furrow in her brow. "And what about tomorrow, Harry? What does happen tomorrow, in Baghdad?"

Harry took a deep breath. "I managed to get intel on the MI6 chap, name is Ronnie, before I left London. I'll meet with him first, let him know we're on to him, and hopefully, make a deal. Then, I find out where McCall is, and where he's meeting Mani. There are only so many hotels in Baghdad, and from what I have on Ronnie, he should give the rest up quickly." He leant forward to get his wine from the glass table in front of them, and took a sip.

"And where will I be?"

"In the hotel room, my love, at your computer. You'll be my eyes and ears on the world. And if all goes well, at some point I'll be asking you to meet us for dinner. The more I think about it, the more sense it makes to just sit down, order a drink, and have a chat. From Christine's description, Libby's a reasonable man, although we can't trust him. Don't know about this Mani bloke, but I do have some talents in the area of persuasion."

Ruth laughed. "I can attest to that." She looked up at him. "Harry. Speaking of dinner ..."

He laughed, and kissed her forehead. "I know. You're hungry."

* * *

**CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN**

* * *

The next afternoon, they walked through the ornate lobby of the Al-Rasheed Hotel. Ruth had never been to Baghdad, and although men in uniform with guns everywhere were a bit daunting, she saw that some of the men were the Greys of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, giving just a small piece of home. And Harry clearly knew what he was doing and where he was going.

Although he exercised the appropriate amount of caution, Harry moved through Baghdad with the same authority he exuded on the Grid. At one point, he whispered to her, "Act like you belong, and no one will question you." Ruth followed his lead, and realised Harry was right. They showed their papers, and were passed through.

In the lobby of the hotel, Ruth looked at the massive glass chandeliers, the marble walls, and the intricate, brightly patterned carpets over the marble tiled floors, and she thought about the strength of the human spirit. She knew how many times this lobby had been rebuilt, because she had read about it. As Harry checked them in, she thought of the people of Baghdad and what they had been forced to endure. And with the memory fresh in her mind of a tranquil beach in Polis with Harry, she wondered how she could ever despair of the life she was privileged to lead.

Yes, she was in exile. Yes, she had been forced to go for periods of time without the man she loved. But she had a roof, and friends, and relative safety, and the man she loved was here with her now. Ruth said a silent thank you, looking upward at the myriad reflections from the glass pendants on the chandelier. Then she felt Harry's hand on her shoulder, and turned. He smiled at her, and it didn't matter where they were, London, Paris, Polis or Baghdad, that same warm, electric feeling moved through her.

Their first day in Baghdad was one of preparation, knowledge-gathering and making contact with Ronnie, McCall and Mani. Ruth was busy all day, feeding Harry information and then discussing options with him. Harry listened to her, appreciating her grasp of the situation, asking questions and working through her answers, and Ruth saw again what made him such a good leader. When decisions were necessary, he made them, but first he listened. They worked together as colleagues, but with the deep core of their love underneath. At midday, as he was rushing out the door once again, he kissed her and said, "I couldn't be doing this without you, Ruth. Your mind is invaluable to me. And you calm me."

The Hotel Al-Rasheed was safe, so Harry did his business there. The first night, he and Ronnie had an early dinner in the hotel restaurant, and from there things moved quickly. They left each other with a plan that the next day, Harry would meet with McCall and Mani as well.

And after wanting to "sneak about" at Havensworth, Harry finally got his wish. Although they had decided on Cyprus that their two nights in Baghdad would be chaste, they lost their resolve during a goodnight kiss just inside the door of Ruth's room.

It had started innocently enough. After Harry's early light dinner with Ronnie, he had come back up and picked through a second dinner with Ruth in her room. They talked about the day, strategised tomorrow, and managed to keep their hands off each other until Harry stood at her door saying goodnight. Suddenly, Ruth thought, he turned into a bloody teenager.

Not just a kiss, but a kiss with hands roaming, tucking between the buttons of her blouse while her mind was elsewhere. "Harry! Stop it," she said, laughing, "What's got into you?"

His lips were on her necklace, and moving up toward her ear, "Mmmmmm, maybe I could stay for just a minute. Just one, Ruth." As he kissed her, his fingertips were trailing softly across the back of her neck.

She was starting to lose her sense of right and wrong with the delicious feelings that were moving down her spine. "I thought you said ... that we ... shouldn't? Isn't that what you said?"

"One minute. What could one minute hurt?" Now Ruth's hands had made their way under his untucked shirt and were tracing tiny circles on his back, and Harry was moving her away from the door.

"You know what this is, don't you?" Ruth was whispering in his ear as he walked her toward the bed. "It's because we can't." She brushed her lips across his cheek. "It's forbidden."

Harry laughed softly, "At this point, I'd like to see someone try to forbid me." He sat her on the bed and lifted her blouse over her head, laying her back on the thick cover. "Ah, Christ," he said softly, kissing down her neck and between her breasts, "it's the one with the lace." He pulled away and looked at the delicate bra she was wearing. His voice was low.

"And what colour blue is this, my Ruth?"

"Mmmmm ... Midnight."

* * *

So much for their decision to be chaste. Harry woke to his alarm and simply went to his room to get his things. He brought them back to Ruth's room, and they had breakfast together, laughing about good intentions.

Contact was made early with McCall and Mani in meetings that were set up by Ronnie, and Harry had been right. Once they all knew that MI5 was on to them, they were anxious to save their skins and cut a deal. From the hotel room, with a laptop and two mobiles, Ruth acted as liaison with Harry and the small team that would handle the transport back to Norfolk.

To seal the deal, a dinner was arranged at McCall's hotel. Harry wanted Ruth to join them for dinner, as a witness to the proceedings, but also because he valued her judgment. At first they thought it might be too dangerous to have her seen, especially by an MI6 officer. But Harry determined that everyone at that table had something to hide, and they were more worried about their own futures than about a woman named Sophie, sitting at the table virtually in silence. Everyone assumed that she was some sort of clerical assistant. When Harry needed documents, she pulled them out of a worn, brown leather briefcase and handed them to him without a word.

Afterwards, back in her hotel room, Harry asked Ruth her impressions of the three men. "Start with Ronnie," he said, as he kicked off his shoes and leant back on the pillows on the bed.

"Slimy sort. 'Course they all were, really, but I got the feeling he was just waiting to find out who would win amongst you, so he could move over to that side." She laid down on the bed next to him, her head propped on her arm. "Which he did immediately toward the end of the meeting, after you won, brilliantly, Harry." She ran her fingers lightly across his forearm. "I do love to watch you work."

His voice was soft, "I would never have known it. You're very good, you know. Sophie was completely detached. Professional. No one at that table could guess that just last night you were educating me on the finer points of expensive lingerie."

As her eyes sparkled, he smiled and wondered again, as he had so many times, if there would ever be a time that he would take these moments with Ruth for granted. He didn't think so. Touching her face, he was of a mind to stop talking and just kiss her, for hours perhaps. But he forced himself to focus. "So, about Ronnie, anything else?"

"Only that I think he lacks passion for much more than the money he stands to earn from the deal. If he said the word 'retirement' one more time, I thought I'd stuff a roll in his mouth." She twined her fingers in Harry's. "At least if someone is a zealot, they stand for something. I don't think any of these men stand for anything other than themselves. Quite an unsavoury group, Harry. Rather depressing, actually."

Harry chuckled. "As always, you get right to the heart of the matter. All these people willing to unleash nuclear bombs on the world in exchange for money. Where do they think they'll spend it, I wonder, when those bombs go off?" He adjusted the pillows behind him so he could look at her. "Continue, my magnificent analyst. What about McCall?"

Ruth pulled a face. "God, horrible man." She looked up at Harry, frowning, "Doesn't he put you in mind of a pug dog, Harry? Like his face was pushed in by something? And he has a habit of licking his lips in the most revolting way." She almost shivered as she described it.

Harry laughed, "That's an astute physical description, but I was actually looking more for an analysis of his motives, Ruth."

"Well, he's a bit of a wriggler, isn't he? Sided with you in the end, just like Ronnie, once he realised there was no hope for the original deal. But Christine was right, Harry. You can't trust him past where you can see him. Not any of them, really."

Harry stood up to pour a glass of water from the pitcher on the table. He offered one to Ruth, and she sat up to take it. Harry came back over with another and sat next to her on the bed. "And Amish Mani?" The other two were stereotype thugs. This was the assessment Harry really wanted to hear.

Ruth took a sip of her water, and then a deep breath. "Oh, he does make an impression, doesn't he?"

Harry didn't want to lead her at all, so he simply nodded, and said, "Mmmmm."

Ruth said, "I sat down next to you, and he immediately came round to sit on the other side of me. Elegant, refined, very expensive suit, and everyone else without ties. Expensive aftershave, although I can't stand the stuff. I was on the verge of a sneeze all night, just smelling him."

Harry tilted his head at her, laughing, "God, I've missed you in briefings, Ruth. You bring a whole new element to analysis. All the senses."

"So he's the one who stole the uranium in the first place, yes?"

"Yes."

Her frown firmly in place, Ruth continued. "I suppose what I felt most from him is that he wants to make his mark on the world. And while he's doing it, he expects to get paid. That is a man who loves money and what it can buy."

As she told Harry, Ruth 's main impression of Amish Mani was that he was a paradox. Soft spoken, but she suspected, lethal. Well-dressed, but with a vulgar mind. More than once he had leant into her, touching her arm in a way that made her skin crawl. And he had asked, "So, you and Harry, you are ...?" and in his oily voice she heard a crude inference, almost as if he had told her a filthy joke and was waiting for her to laugh.

"Colleagues," she had answered coldly. She had kept herself to one-word answers whenever possible, but that seemed only to intrigue Mani, make him want more. He missed most of the conversation at the table because his focus was entirely on her, the only woman there.

"And now I realise that by focusing on me, he really was focusing on you, Harry, because you were the one he felt had the power in the negotiation. And although you gave me a nice compliment earlier about how detached I was, I got the feeling from Mani that ... that, somehow ... "

"That he knew? About us?"

"Yes. It was as if he were looking through my clothes, Harry. And that he could see somehow how much we meant to each other." She shook her head. "But that's not possible, so it must be my imagination."

Harry narrowed his eyes at her, "No, Ruth, you don't imagine much. If you're feeling it, then we should keep an eye on that one. He does seem ambitious." He pulled her toward him, kissing the top of her head. "Thank you, my love, for being here with me. You can't know what it's meant."

Ruth looked up at him and brushed her lips lightly across his. "You shouldn't have to do everything alone, Harry. And I think we're a good partnership," she pulled herself closer to him, until their bodies melded almost into one, "in every way."

Harry smiled and spoke softly in her ear. "I take it we're losing our resolve again? That you won't be pushing me out to that cold, dark room next door?"

She looked up at him and smiled, "Oh, poor Harry. No, I'm keeping you here with me tonight. I may just hold you all night long to keep you warm."

In fact, they undressed and snuggled under the covers right then. It was late, and it had been a long day. And although they intended to make love, they slipped effortlessly into sleep without knowing it, in one of the most dangerous cities in the world, but safe in each other's arms.

In the end, Harry managed, brilliantly, to achieve an agreement that he would "safeguard" the uranium until a later date. The next morning, very early, McCall and Harry met again as the uranium was physically taken from its hiding place and sent off to Norfolk. Ruth stayed in the hotel room until Harry returned, and then they flew back to Cyprus for the night.

And although she had been excited about working for MI5 again, Ruth couldn't wait to leave Baghdad. The feeling of dread had returned, and later, much later, she would know that this was another of those defining moments.

She could queue them up, one by one, forming the straight line of her story with Harry. And every moment had ripples that continued far into the distance, past where she could see.

* * *

"This is a place you could get lost, Harry. It feels like we're the only ones on the entire island."

"Yes, well, wait 'till high season." They'd managed to get the same room, with the same terrace, precisely because it wasn't the high season.

Ruth was lying on the loveseat, her head on Harry's lap. Her legs dangled over the armrest, cushioned by one of the brightly-coloured pillows. She toyed aimlessly with the buttons on his shirt as she talked, but most of the time, she was simply looking out at the sea, watching the diamonds of sunlight playing on the surface.

Harry was reading, or trying to. He was re-reading "War as I Knew It," by General George S. Patton, a favourite. "Listen to this, Ruth. '_Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do, and they will surprise you with their ingenuity_.'" He put the book down beside him, and took her hand. "Ingenuity. That word reminds me of you, my love." He laughed, "Spook taxis. Good God. Whoever would have thought of that but you."

She looked up at him as he peered down at her. "It was perfectly logical, Harry. Not even a stretch of the mind. Can't believe no one had thought of it before that." She was getting a little dizzy looking up at him, so she turned and sat up. "He was a brilliant man, Patton. And entirely aside from your reading that book, you've reminded me of him."

"What, my colourful language?" Harry asked.

Ruth laughed. "Well, yes, you do have a way with words, but not just that." She reached her hand up and touched his face. "You inspire people to be more than they are, Harry."

The compliment so surprised him that he had to take a breath, and a slight flush came to his cheeks, which caused him to look down at the book again.

Ruth smiled gently at him, bending down a bit to catch his eyes. "Harry? I embarrassed you. Why? Is that so hard to hear?"

He still couldn't look at her. "Not certain, actually." He looked out at the sea, shaking his head slightly. "I suppose I'm generally not good at taking compliments. But that touched me somehow … being an inspiration … It's what I … want. And I feel inadequate to the task most of the time."

Her hand had moved to the back of his neck, and she played with the short, blond curls there. "Well, hear this, Harry. You do inspire. Not because you mean to, but by example."

_By example. An inspiration_. Harry's mind went suddenly to Graham and Catherine. What would they say, listening to this conversation? And as he thought of them, he knew he had to ask Ruth the question that had been in the back of his mind since the first day he had committed himself to her.

Harry was silent for a moment, and Ruth sensed he was formulating a question for her, so she stayed still. But he sat even longer, his eyes darting out at the sea, and it became clear he was having trouble finding the words to say what he wanted.

"Harry? What is it?"

"Erm … I was wondering … "

_Harry? Tongue-tied?_ Ruth tried to imagine what it could possibly be. "Yes?"

"What you thought about … children."

_Ah. So that was it._ And since Ruth didn't know exactly what he was asking, she needed him to get more specific. "In general, or having them?"

"Having them." Finally having said it, Harry could relax a bit. The subject was opened. He exhaled, and turned to look at her.

His eyes were so exposed, so vulnerable, that Ruth's breath almost caught. The way his eyebrows angled up in the centre when he was asking for answers he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. But she thought how much courage it took for him to ask it, and she couldn't stop herself from moving forward to kiss the angle of his brow, and then his lips, tenderly, to ease him.

"I don't think I want them, Harry. If you do, I would consider it, but if you don't, we're of a mind."

Now he visibly relaxed, and his arm went round her. "I just thought, you're young, and I've had mine, and that didn't turn out so well, did it? But I didn't want to keep you from it … "

She smiled up at him, and to quiet him, kissed him again. "Harry, don't. It's okay." Taking his hands, she turned on the seat to face him completely. "I got to know Fiona very well, you know. We had lunches together, when she was on the Grid. We talked a lot about Wes."

Harry's face took on the sad look he always seemed to wear when Wes' name came up. "Ah, Wes. I told you in a letter, I think, about him running away? Had us all torn in two directions."

Ruth nodded. "Yes, exactly, Harry. It's what Fiona talked about. It's what I know I would feel." She turned and looked out toward the sea, pressing herself against his shoulder. "Fiona used to say that it was selfish of them to have had a child. He was forever looking for her, wondering where she was. Wes never even knew her real name. None of us did."

Harry exhaled softly, and Ruth turned, and smiled at him. "Well, maybe you did." Looking back at the water, she continued, "I couldn't do that, Harry. It wouldn't be good for a child, and I'm not ready to stop the work. So that tells me that right now, it's not important enough to me."

Harry stroked her hair lightly. "I always thought it was something women _had_ to do. It's not something I think I would have done if Jane hadn't wanted it so much." He sighed. "And now neither of them really speak to me. Catherine, somewhat. But not the way I'd wish it."

Ruth smiled. "She's just stubborn, Harry." She looked up at him, raising her eyebrows.

"Subtle, my love. Yes, just like me." He paused for a moment, and then, "There is something to be said for having a little piece of you roaming the Earth." More softly, he said, "You don't need that, Ruth?"

Smiling, Ruth said, "Oh, Harry, I would love to see what we would make together. A bossy little analyser, stubborn as a mule, with a wicked sense of humour. Your eyes, my mind, and a great capacity for love. A proper little spook." They both laughed, and Ruth continued, "But we wouldn't be there. There would be a nanny, and we'd kiss little Henry goodbye in the morning, and then kiss him hello after he'd gone to sleep at night. What sort of life is that for a child? Or for us?"

Harry held her tightly. He'd started this conversation afraid that she would say she did want a child, and now Harry wanted badly to see little Henry. To see what they would create together out of the most profound love he'd ever known. But he also knew Ruth was right in everything she'd said.

After a minute of silence, Ruth said, "I remember one morning I had to stop at the library or something, across from a school. I was waiting for the bus to come, and I watched a woman see her son off. He must have been five or six, and he wanted to go on himself, without her, so she stood at the corner and watched him walk the last bit to the school alone."

"God, Harry, the focus in that woman's eyes. There could have been an earthquake, a hurricane, anything, and she wouldn't have taken her eyes off of that little figure walking up the steps. And not just concentration, but love, and pride, and a hundred different emotions were written on her face. I was put in mind of a mother bear, some fierce animal, watching, protecting, ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger."

"I found my eyes beginning to blur, Harry, and it was tears. It touched something deep inside me." She turned and looked at Harry. "That's what a mother needs to be, and I know I'm not ready to be that. I might wish I could be, but I'm not."

He touched her face, gently. "And you can give it up?"

"Yes, Harry. And you need to hear that I'm giving it up for me, not for you." Ruth smiled, genuinely. "I may be too fussy to be a good mother anyway. I think I'd expect too much. A recitation of Homer a few moments out of the womb, perhaps." At Harry's soft laugh, she said, "Although I suspect you'd be a wonderful father, this time round."

"Don't know about that." Harry's eyes clouded over. "I do know I've seen far too many crying mothers and fathers over children missing or dead. Too many bomb blasts, too much sadness. I think I might worry too much."

Ruth leant over and kissed him lightly on the lips, and then she put her arms around him. They both seemed to need comfort somehow, as if a door had shut suddenly, even though they knew they were the ones who had closed it, mindfully. And both knew, instinctively, that there was another reason, too. They had been denied each other for so long that they weren't ready to share. Even with another little piece of themselves.

It was getting dark now, and there was just a hint of the early Spring cool off of the sea. They gathered up their things and moved indoors, feeling every bit the couple on the last night of their holidays. Tomorrow they would go home. To their separate homes. Ruth back the bookshop, and Harry back to the Grid.

Again, Ruth could hear the music of the carousel starting up. Four days together hadn't eased her need for him, on the contrary, she felt she wanted him more. She would always be greedy for him, and now, with no set date of seeing him again, she held him just a little bit closer to her under the soft covers of the hotel bed.

"Ruth."

She pulled away and looked at him, and he used his thumb to brush away the tear that had made its way down her cheek. He knew what she was thinking, because he was thinking it too. _When? When will this all be over?_

Harry couldn't remember who said it, but he thought it might be Einstein. "_God doesn't play dice with the Universe_." Well, with all respect to the brilliant man, Harry thought he was wrong in this case.

Harry tried to sound optimistic when he talked to Ruth about her return to England, but when? He couldn't give her an answer. He simply didn't know.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT**

* * *

They spent the night in Paradise, and the next morning boarded a small plane to an uncertain future. Harry was supposed to be back on the Grid on Monday late afternoon, but faced with the prospect of saying goodbye to Ruth in Paris, he lost his nerve.

As he was getting their bags, he called Adam to get his daily report, and was told that there was no need for him to come in until the morning. It was only a couple of hours, after all. Zaf was in Tehran, and Adam, Ros, Malcolm and Jo were holding down the Grid. They could meet tomorrow morning and fill him in on what had happened in the last couple of days, which wasn't much. Mainly the news of the impending peace with Iran, due to an olive branch offered by the Prime Minister. The Home Secretary was planning a BBC interview at ten-thirty. Harry could catch the train at eight, and with the time change, be on the Grid by ten.

When he rang off, Harry couldn't suppress the feeling of a boy being let out of school for the day. It was only one o'clock. He hadn't yet been inside Ruth's apartment, and there was that Indian Restaurant around the corner that she had gone on about. The car was waiting at the airport to drive them back to Paris, and as they pulled on to the main road, Harry took Ruth's hand.

He felt the unfamiliar brush of metal and ran his finger across her ring. Picking up her hand and looking at it, he gazed over at her, and met her eyes on him. He kissed the silver band, and looked playfully at her from under his brow. "What would you say if I told you that you were stuck with me for another night?"

Her face broke into an incandescent smile, "I'd say I was very fortunate. Really? How?"

"It seems they're doing quite well without me on the Grid." He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "And here I thought I was indispensable."

She moved closer to him on the seat, "You are, Harry. Just not today. And their loss is my gain." She kissed him lightly, still smiling, "You can see my flat. God, how many nights have we spent in hotel rooms? I want you in my bed tonight."

"And that's an offer I can't refuse, my love." He leant forward and spoke to the driver. "_Changement de direction. Nous n'allons plus a la Gare du Nord, mais 2 Rue du Banquier, s'il vous plait_, " he said, letting the driver know that they would be making only one stop, and would not be going on to the train station.

When he sat back in the seat, Ruth said, "I love hearing you speak French, Harry. Your accent's quite good."

He gave her a self-deprecating laugh, "French by way of Berkshire, Jesus College, and a lazy tongue. You're very generous, Ruth."

Ruth tilted her head at him, a small frown forming. "And you truly need to learn to take a compliment, Harry. How is it that I've never noticed this about you?" She put her hand up to his face. "What _do_ you think of yourself? Is it possible that you really don't know how extraordinary you are?"

Harry smiled at her tenderly, "Now who has a rose-tinted blind spot, my Ruth? You should know better than anyone that I'm a man with many limitations."

"Not quite so many as you seem to think. And I love you the better for them. What does that tell you?"

His eyes soft, Harry said quietly, "It tells me again that I'm the luckiest man in the world."

She squeezed his hand, and then looked out the window. "April in Paris, Harry. Always my dream. And now here I am, and all I can think is I want to have April in Paris with you." She looked back at him with a sad smile. "Greedy, aren't I?"

"We both are." He returned the smile, and gazed at her, memorising.

Ruth broke the silence first. "I need new rules, Harry. Are we held to just letters, or can we talk now and then? I know I can't come see you, but can you come over from time to time?"

He laughed softly. "We just keep making it up as we go along, don't we?" He paused, thinking. "Letters, absolutely, and Sophie and Will might be allowed an endearment or two, as I think we're very safe there, and they do seem to get on."

Ruth smiled. "Sophie's fallen for him, and hard. She'll be glad to hear that."

"It seems to me that the only real danger would be if you tried to come back into England. With Mace out of the picture, I just don't see anyone chasing you anymore, Ruth. So as to calls? I'm assured my mobile's secure. If it's not, there are bigger issues of national security that would be cause for concern. And you have a mobile, no phone in your flat, correct?"

"Yes."

"For the time being, let's leave it that I'll call you. I never know who might be with me, so best to wait until I'm safely alone."

"And the third thing, Harry? Visits?"

"That's a little more problematical." He was looking straight ahead, his face passive.

Ruth's heart sank, but she was hearing something unusual in his voice, so she went further. "But you came last week? And it turned out well, yes?

"Not bad." He was sounding very businesslike to Ruth. "But since you ask, I have a trip planned to Paris next Tuesday, week from tomorrow. A celebration." He turned and looked out the window, strangely silent.

Ruth couldn't make out what he was doing. It was another game, she thought, something she had to figure out. Perhaps it was an anniversary of some occasion that she had forgotten? She began to work it through. Today was April 21, and next Tuesday would be the 29th ... Suddenly she gasped.

"Cripes, Harry. That's my birthday!"

He turned to her, a sly smile on his face. "Then it's a good thing I happen to be coming to Paris on that very day, don't you think?"

Ruth laughed. "God, Harry, I couldn't figure what you were playing at." She shook her head. "I was about to forget my own birthday. Thanks for that." She leant up and kissed him. "That would have been dreadful. Probably would've noticed the date on a receipt for someone at the shop and burst into tears." Now it suddenly hit her. "You're coming? Really? Oh, Harry!"

Harry chuckled at her. "That progression was just a joy to watch, Ruth. You've managed to run the gamut of emotions in all of thirty seconds."

Ruth was feeling too much joy even to be teased. "You're coming. Oh, how wonderful! What shall we do?"

"I think Sophie said something about a dinner cruise on the Seine, maybe a trip to the top of La Tour Eiffel? Dessert from the Patisserie around the corner? Eaten in bed ... " His voice was descending lower, as he moved closer to her, the last words spoken softly against her ear.

Ruth sighed loudly, "I think you just described the perfect birthday, Harry."

He moved away to look at her eyes. "So is that a yes?"

"Yes." She leant back on the seat and raised her eyebrows. "I've been saying yes quite a lot lately, haven't I? But I suppose it's a bit late to play hard to get." Harry nodded his head, silently. "Yes, it sounds lovely. So much more than I could have imagined for us ..." She calculated in her head, " ... fifty-six days ago."

"Fifty-six days." He smiled at her. "You keep a calendar too?"

"Yes. Since that day at the docks, since I left you, and England? Yes, I keep a calendar." Her eyes grew sad suddenly, but she took a deep breath and smiled. "The cards we're dealt, Harry. I'll play them as long as I have to, until I'm home with you." Her cheeks coloured faintly, and she added, "In _our_ home."

"I like the sound of that, Ruth. Our home." He took her hand across the seat, and held it there, between them.

_Our home_. Ruth smiled and, embarrassed at the heat from her face that she knew must be evident to him, looked out of the window at the slightly grey April skies. She still had to pinch herself at times. It seemed such a long time that she had loved Harry and thought no one knew, Ruth had resigned herself to it. And now, looking down at her ring, the one that Harry created just for her, she knew that this was real. He loved her, with all his heart. A future was possible.

When she said the words _our home_, Ruth realised that she finally believed it. She saw it. She saw them together, in the house that they would make their own. Somewhere, it had happened. In Polis, or the Hotel Britannique, or the cafe with Tom and Christine, she had finally let go and believed in the fairy tale. And now, as she looked out at the Paris sky, Ruth pushed the feelings of dread away, the way one casts off a depressing acquaintance. She was choosing not to spend time with those thoughts.

Another visit, for her birthday. At least, thank God, the carousel was moving still. She had so much more than she ever thought she would have with Harry. She looked over at her hand, enclosed in his. She would be grateful for this, for these moments, until they could be together. In _their_ home.

Until now, Ruth had been holding a part of herself back, the piece that she could use to rebuild her life should this not work out with Harry. Now she gave it freely to him. She abandoned her rope, tore down the safety net, cut away the parachute, all the metaphors she had been unconsciously muttering in her head.

She looked up at him, and saw that he'd been watching her, the familiar lines of concern folding between his eyebrows. His brown eyes were the colour of rich earth, and filled with love. Moving toward him, she put her hand to his face. "I see it, Harry," she said softly, although she wasn't sure she could describe what she was feeling. "I see us, together, forever. Until the day we take our last breath. I'm not sure I've truly believed it until now."

There were tears forming in her eyes, brought on by the emotion of the realisation. "I've been saving a part of myself as a kind of insurance against disappointment. Just in case." She leant up and kissed him, and Harry could feel a slight tremble in her lips. "I give it to you, Harry. With all my heart."

Harry folded her in his arms, not knowing what to say. This was his dream, and yet it frightened him somehow. He almost wanted to tell her that she should hold something back, to keep that part safe, because "just in case" had been a stark reality in his life. But he also wanted to accept the gift with open arms. Maybe this time it would be different, and perhaps he could have the happy ending. So Harry let go too, and decided that whatever happened, they would stand or fall together.

He tilted her head up and kissed her, warm and deeply, as the car moved them toward Ruth's flat. It reminded him of the surreptitious kisses in the backs of cars when he was much younger. She always made him feel that way anyway. Younger, less worn, less aware of the danger in the world. Right now the whole world was contained in her lips, and the breath he felt on his cheek. With his eyes closed and his mouth on hers, nothing else existed.

* * *

The car dropped them off in front of the green door on the Rue du Banquier, and Ruth took Harry up to her flat, joking about giving him the grand tour, which took all of ten minutes.

Looking out of the windows on to the small park below, Harry smiled. "I like it, Ruth." He turned to her. "Do you?"

She went to him and took his arm, peering across at the white dome of Les Gobelins. "I do." She looked up at him. "Although, I must say I like it better with you in it."

The sadness that she hoped hadn't crept into her voice was evident to him, and he circled her with his arms. He spoke softly into her hair, "Then I'll have to spend more time here, my love."

Ruth knew she needed to lighten the mood, so she asked a question that she had been wondering about for while. "How did you choose this, Harry? This area, this flat?" She moved instinctively to the kitchen, knowing they were both craving a good English cup of tea after their travels.

Harry followed her and stood at the doorway watching as she filled the kettle and switched it on. "This was all Zaf's doing. Did rather a lot of research for the amount of time we had, actually. Wanted to be sure you had everything near at hand, art and bookshops, cafes, places where you could make friends. He cares about you quite a lot, you know."

She looked up and smiled. "The feeling's mutual. I'm not very much older than he is, but there are times I feel quite motherly toward him." Her voice grew softer, "He was good to me in those last few days in London." She turned back to the tea. "How is he?"

"He's in Tehran now." Harry realised that except for the Baghdad operation, he hadn't talked much about the work. Ruth hadn't asked, not wanting to put him on the spot, and he hadn't wanted to get too specific. He wasn't sure why, but that old chestnut _plausible deniability_ popped into his head. Now he felt he wanted to tell her about her friends and colleagues on the Grid, if she wanted to know. "He's keeping an eye on the local dissidents, what with the PM opening up the possibility of peace. So many don't want it, would prefer the war, which is ideologically more to their liking."

She turned to him again. "Is he safe, Harry?"

Harry sighed. "Safe? Well, his legend has him working in an oil company's office there, but safe? I can't say it's ever safe to be a member of the Security Services on foreign soil, especially a place like Tehran. It's not all that safe at home."

Ruth leant back on the counter. "Will you tell him, when you can, that I think about him? And tell him that I'm happy about the flat. Tell him well done. From Sophie."

"I will." Harry still stood in the doorway, as there really wasn't room for two in the kitchen. "Maybe we should keep this place after you come home. To have a Paris base? The cost is minimal, and I like being here. The Grid feels very far away. It feels healthy somehow to really get away from it." The word he was looking for came to him. "Gives a sense of equilibrium."

The water boiled, and Ruth turned to pull down the cups. Harry watched her, feeling the quiet joy of familiarity. Such a simple thing, making tea, but this was a picture to treasure, a memory he would store away with all the others of the last four days. He found himself watching the movement of her hands, and the intermittent gleam of the ring he had placed on her finger. She was his. His Ruth. The dream he spoke about on the way to Bath was now truly within his reach.

She turned and handed him a steaming cup of Earl Grey, and he held it up to breathe in the splendid aroma. "Nothing like a little travel to make you appreciate home. I'm very glad I fell in love with a good English girl," he said softly, as she moved past him toward the lounge.

She looked back at him over her shoulder, "You'd best get her home, or she'll turn French on you."

As they sat down, Harry said, "Mmmmm, English and French. A very good combination." They both blew on their tea at the same time to cool it, peering at each other over their cups. She looked so beautiful sitting there, her eyes so large and soft, and Harry couldn't stop himself. "I love you."

She looked back at him, not moving, a smile curling the corners of her lips. "I love you." She took a quick sip of the hot tea and then put her cup down. "Now, more about the Grid. Whatever you can tell me. What about Adam? You were worried about him?"

"Yes. He's been seeing Diana. It's post-traumatic stress, she's certain, but he seems to be improving. I'll have a report from her on my desk when I get back." He put his cup next to Ruth's. "He's been taking chances, unreasonable ones, and he's been lucky so far. But that sort of thing catches up with you, it's simply the law of averages."

"How much of it has to do with Fiona, do you think? God, he loved … loves … her still. I don't see him ever finding another woman who could live up to her."

"Oh, I think it's everything to do with Fiona." He paused for a moment. "Did you know that my mum's name was Fiona? My dad called her Fee, just as Adam did. I've often wondered if it adds to my care for Wes. Losing a mother at that age …" His voice trailed off, and he picked up his cup again to cover his slight awkwardness. "Sorry. Don't talk much about this."

"When did you lose your mother, Harry? How old were you?"

"Twenty, twice as old as Wes. But my mother had always been fragile ... and ... you know, children tend to think that whatever happens is their fault." He sipped his tea, not wanting to go any further. Ruth took the cup from his hand and moved closer to him. She put his arm around her shoulder and rested her head on his chest.

"Everything can't be your fault, Harry." She put her arms round him, hugging him. "Even if Adam gets himself killed, it's not your fault."

Harry took a deep breath and held her even closer. "How, Ruth, do you manage always to go right to my heart? To what's bothering me, even when I don't know it? That's it. I don't want to be the reason Wes has no mother _and_ no father. I've tried to keep Adam safe, but he won't let me. He doesn't really take orders from me anymore, he does what he pleases, and it's usually dangerous. It's like he _wants_ to get himself killed." The words had been tumbling out, and now Harry took a pause. "Like he wants to go to where Fiona is, Ruth."

She pulled back so that she could look at him. "Can you understand that feeling?"

Harry put his hand on her face, cradling it gently. "Yes, my love, I can. You think you'll never find it, and then you do. And then it's taken from you." He leant down and kissed her. "Yes, I can understand."

Ruth took a long pause, wondering if she should ask him the question she was thinking. And then, she simply did. "If something were to happen to me, Harry? I know this is rather morbid, but I want to know. You wouldn't want to die? You would go on, yes?" Her frown was back in full bloom, complete with creased forehead and slightly downturned mouth. "I would want you to, to find someone else, to love again. I love you too much to think of you the way you're describing Adam. I would hope that loving me has opened your heart to finding more happiness."

Harry took a deep breath, needing the extra oxygen to even think about it. After a moment he nodded, solemnly. "I would go on. But a part of me would die with you, my Ruth, and … " he pulled her close to him, "And, I would never look for this again." His voice was almost a whisper, "Nothing could measure up to this. To us."

He sighed softly, and continued, "So stay with the living, will you? Stay with me." He kissed the top of her head, and held her tightly. "And it is rather morbid, yes, but good to say. Hard to say. I wonder if Adam and Fiona talked like this. It might have helped him if they had." He looked down and found her eyes. "And you? If something happened to me? What would you do?"

She sat up and looked at him. "The same, Harry." Her eyes were focused sharply on his. "I would know for the whole of my life that I had found my soul mate in you." Her eyes began to glisten, "After a time, I might seek a companion, but never this, Harry, it would be pointless to try. I would live through it, but I would be so sad without you."

"I've no intention of leaving anytime soon." He took her hand, and then looked back into her eyes. "But I agree, I would want you to find happiness. No pining, my Ruth." He ran his thumb gently across her cheek, and then put his arm around her again. They sat quietly for a time, listening to the life of Paris that flourished just outside the window. Harry took a deep breath. He felt better for having talked about it. It had been somewhat the elephant in the room ever since Ruth had brought it up over breakfast in Bath.

In truth, Harry thought more about death than he ever let on. His life had felt like a long game of Russian Roulette, and the gun had been placed at his head more times than he liked to count. The fact that a bullet had yet to be in the chamber only served to convince him that the chances were even greater the next time it happened.

As far as where he would go, Harry wasn't convinced of any of it. He knew he prayed, like all good sinners, as a last resort, when there was no more hope. In the millisecond between the bullet leaving the gun that Tom held and when it struck his body. In the minutes as he watched wild-eyed Irish Army members torturing his agents, wondering when they would turn on him. In the hours he lay hidden in a building in Tehran, listening for footsteps. _There are no atheists in foxholes. _He had prayed, but without a clear idea of to whom he prayed.

He knew what he hoped. He hoped that all the stories were true, that he would walk through a tunnel and find those he had loved. That both Fionas, Adam's and his mother, would be there, whole and strong and without accusing eyes. That Danny would smile at him, Helen would reach out to him, Colin give a tip of the head. That Bill Crombie would laugh. So many others, for whom the game had turned out badly, for whom the chamber had finally held the bullet.

But even if he wasn't sure where he was going, Harry now had something very precious to leave behind. He couldn't bear the thought that Ruth would spend the rest of her days longing for him, although he couldn't honestly imagine that happening. Ruth was a vibrant, beautiful, intelligent young woman with a passionate love of life. She might not seek someone out, but someone would surely find her.

That thought simultaneously gave Harry a deep sense of comfort, and a sharp stab at the heart.

And now that was settled, Harry needed to get up and move. He took a deep breath and said, as lightly as he could, "I'm ready to venture out to explore your neighbourhood. By foot, or by taxi?"

"Definitely by foot. We won't get as far, but we won't need to. Zaf did a wonderful job, everything is nearby." She took one last sip of her tea and stood to go to the kitchen. "We'll have a nice, long walk, and then an early dinner. How does Indian sound?"

"I was hoping for that. I've certainly heard enough about your corner restaurant to be curious." Harry stood too, following her. "And what comes after the dinner, my Ruth?"

She turned suddenly, and caught him in the doorway. Ruth leant up and kissed him, her mouth tasting wonderfully of sweet tea. She spoke softly against his lips, "Why don't we just play that by ear. See what occurs to us."

His arms went round her. "You lead, I'll follow."

* * *

**CHAPTER FORTY-NINE**

* * *

After a delicious dinner of tandoori barbecued chicken, warm breads with colourful chutneys for dipping, curried lamb, basmati rice, and a shared dish of Indian cheesecake, they walked the long way back to Ruth's apartment. They held hands and talked as they always did, easily, laughing, in love.

And Ruth finally had memories of Harry in her Paris apartment, curled with her on the couch over a late cup of tea, a long, steaming shower surrounded by her green tiles, and then making love to the distant hum of the cars below the open window. A Paris moon shining across the bed, and his acknowledgement of the card still propped on the side table, now endowed with not only the words _Je t'aime_, but with a kiss from the very lips that had asked them to be written there.

A morning alarm, and then the rush of both of them getting ready for work, as normal and routine as any married couple beginning their day. But Harry was taking a taxi to Gare du Nord to go back to London and the Grid, and Ruth said goodbye before she walked to the Metro to begin her day at _l'Alcove Booksellers_. They shouldn't have been melancholy. They'd stolen another eighteen hours from the turning world, hours they didn't think they'd have together. But saying goodbye was hard, still. It seemed to be getting harder, rather than easier.

Just inside the green door, they held each other, bundled up in coats and gloves against the early morning chill. They kissed, long, soft kisses meant to last for a full week until Ruth's birthday. They said "I love you" more than once, and released each other again, their fingers touching across the threshold, maintaining contact until the very last second.

Harry arrived on the Grid with time to spare, even before Adam and Ros managed to get there to brief him. He stood in his office, waiting for the Home Secretary to come on the news, and he found himself wanting, just once more, to hear her before he brought himself back completely from their holiday together.

So he followed his impulse and simply called her. One ring and then, "That was fast, Harry." He smiled as the sound of her voice moved through him.

"There was something I forgot to tell you," he said softly, pacing his office and watching the beginning of the BBC broadcast on his computer screen. His office seemed particularly dark this morning, and her voice brought to mind the sparkling blue sea, warm kisses, and her hair blowing in the wind. He whispered, although his door was closed and no one could hear, "Turquoise."

She laughed, and then said softly back to him, "It's interesting you should say that, because there was something I forgot to tell you, too. Robin's egg."

His smile grew wider as he continued to walk the length of his office. "You're very competitive, my Sophie. Must you always have the last word?"

"Yes, and it's one of the qualities you love about me, my Will."

The Home Secretary was now on the screen, and Harry turned the sound up just a bit. "That happens to be true. I do love you. And now I have to go to work, but if I can, I'll call you right back. It seems that I like to hear your voice."

"I love you, too. And thanks for passing on that _very_ vital information about turquoise."

"I'll call you in a minute."

"If you can. I'll be here."

Harry closed his mobile and listened now as the interview continued. The Home Secretary was talking about a lasting peace in Iran. A frown creased the space between Harry's eyebrows. He knew he was really back at work, because he was feeling the weight begin to settle firmly back on his shoulders. It wasn't minutes, but hours, before he managed to call Ruth back, but she had known it would be, by the sound of his voice. Ruth knew better than anyone the compelling power of the Grid.

Harry and Ruth's first day back at work couldn't have been more different. Ruth walked into the bookshop and faced a quiet, peaceful morning filling the internet orders that had come through over the past four days. Harry walked on to the Grid, and within an hour of his phone call to her, was embroiled in a crisis.

Harry met first with Adam and Ros, and something struck him the moment they sat down. Maybe it was the fact that he still had the memory of Ruth's voice soft in his ear, or perhaps his radar was more attuned now to this sort of thing, but he got the clear message as they talked that these two had more than work going on together. Although Ros sat icily looking at Harry, Adam was different with her, and now that Harry thought about it, they had been different since their near-death experience at the Thames Barrier.

_Good_, he thought. It was an appropriate match, and perhaps Ros could help Adam to see that there was more left to do in his life. After Ros went out, Harry gave Adam the good news that the review board had passed on his latest psychiatric assessment, and it showed that he had made excellent progress in the last few sessions.

Harry wanted Adam to know that he sensed what was going on with Ros, and also that he approved, so he added, kindly, "Working in this field, it's important to have some kind of ... equilibrium." Harry said it with the clear picture in his mind of the last time he'd used that word, in Ruth's Paris kitchen, and the sure sense that he now felt an equilibrium beginning to settle itself into his own life.

Adam's reply surprised him with its vehemence. "Oh, come on, Harry, who are you kidding? No one in this place has time for a real life." Adam turned and was through the door, leaving Harry feeling even more concerned for his senior officer. _So much for equilibrium_.

Within an hour, Harry was sitting across from the Home Secretary, discussing a possible disruption of the peace process with Iran. Mehan Asnick, a member of Iranian Intelligence, but also one of the reactionary die-hards that Zaf had been keeping his eye on in Tehran, was planning a trip to London, and as Adam said, "it's not for the shopping."

The Home Secretary was clear in his directive. "Mehan Asnick can't be permitted to even step on British soil, let alone unleash his carnage here. So deal with him. Over there." Harry knew very well what the words "deal with him" meant.

The plan was to kill Asnick by bombing the train on which he travelled. Unfortunately, it went horribly wrong when the train suddenly slowed, still in the city, giving Asnick the opportunity to move to another train. With a mounting sense of dread, Harry called the Home Secretary, who told him to detonate anyway. Harry was unable to convince him that the resulting forty Iranian civilian deaths was too much collateral damage. The Home Secretary was as clear as he could be. "This is not to be negotiated. So you go ahead. You do your job. And you swallow it."

So Harry gave the order to detonate. And swallowed.

A moment later, Harry closed his office door behind him and leant against it. He had just killed forty people without warning, and he literally needed to catch his breath. They had been everyday people, husbands, wives, children, mothers, fathers, friends. People who were peacefully beginning their day, who had simply boarded a train, just as Harry had done this morning.

He imagined the horror the British people would have felt, the outrage, if his train from Paris to London had suffered the same fate. And he imagined Ruth, hearing about Harry's death from the blast. Her grief, the sudden testing of all they had discussed about death just yesterday. And he multiplied that times forty.

Harry stood with his back to the Grid, so that even someone outside the glass could barely see him. He could think of nothing he wanted more than to hear Ruth's voice again. He pressed the button on his mobile and heard it ring, once, twice, three times, and then he got his wish. It was her sweet, soothing voice, but in a recorded message. _Merci __de votre appel. Veuillez laisser un message, s'il vous plait._

In Paris, Ruth's mobile vibrated on the table next to the computer in the back of the shop. Sophie was in the front, helping Monsieur Beaufort, a man who came nearly once a week to _l'Alcove_. She had begun to suspect the elderly gentleman simply liked talking to her, because he never purchased, only looked, but always required assistance. He must have been close to eighty, and his eyes were not what they used to be.

Harry listened to her message, and breathed in the sound of her. It washed over him like cool water, but it was so pure, he couldn't speak. He began to, but what he had just done made him feel strangely unworthy of her, unable even to allow himself the comfort of contact. Suddenly their morning, their kisses inside the green door of 2 Rue du Banquier seemed a lifetime away. He didn't leave a message. The tone after her voice hung in the air, until he finally closed his mobile, not having said a word.

Incredibly, Harry's day got worse. In the blast, something even more horrible was unleashed. A virus that caused death within eighteen hours. More people were dying now, sick with the virus, and Harry added their lives on to the others he had taken earlier in the day. There was no known vaccine. And to underline the pointlessness of the casualties, Asnick was still miraculously alive.

As his day drew to a close, Harry was on the Grid waiting to hear from Adam and Zaf, who were bringing Asnick in. In all likelihood, they had been exposed to the virus, and they had to be stopped before they brought the plague to Britain. They had arrived in England, he knew, but he hadn't heard from them since.

It was a desperate evening for him, after a day that had started in the arms of the woman he loved. He wanted so much to call Ruth, but couldn't bring himself to tell her what he'd done. Perhaps now that he was more free to say what he really meant, a letter would allow him to express his thoughts.

_My dearest Sophie,_

_I had to make a decision today that has wrenched me practically into paralysis. Actually, I can't call it a decision, it was an order which I carried out, but which leaves me no less responsible. I will admit that before following through, I had a moment of wanting to turn and leave my place of work and come straight to you. I would have taken you in my arms and we would have gone in search of more colours of blue, a search that would last us this lifetime and into the next. _

_Today I ended the hopes of forty innocent people, and as I write this, that number is rising. I caused forty families to make the choices we discussed just yesterday, about whether to carry on or to grieve. I sit here wondering at my own humanity, and whether the laws of the universe will require a price to be paid for my actions._

_I could rattle on about being the best man for the job, but in the end I feel I am a minor character, little more than a pugilist for the state. No better or worse than the apes that were sent up in space capsules, trained to push a button without consideration, without responsibility. _

_And as I sit here with my guilt, I am envious of the rules of the firing squad. The rule dictating that not every gun contains real bullets, so that none of the men in the line know exactly who fired the fatal shots. I have not been given that grace. I know what I did, and I'm fully aware of the result._

_This is not what I signed on for. Service is one thing, wanton destruction is another. This was truly a case of destroying the haystack to find the needle, and for tonight you must forgive me for hiding behind a metaphor because I cannot honestly face myself in the mirror._

_Contrary to popular belief, there is a heart that beats within my chest, and it's in such pain as I write this that I can hardly breathe. Perhaps I reach out to you now, because you're the only one who knows the capacity of that heart. I suppose I'm asking for forgiveness from the one person who can give it, the only one who matters._

_I tried to call you earlier to hear your voice. I cannot call you now because I simply can't think of what I would say. Your forehead would furrow deeply at this one, I fear. I worry that you might wonder again who it is you love._

_The one who loves you,_

_Will_

Ruth watched the reports come in on the news, and she used her skills of analysis to recreate what she thought had happened. Somehow, for some reason, Harry had given the order to blow up that train in Tehran. She assumed from his letter that he had been told to do so by the Home Secretary, the DG, or even higher, the PM's office. Her heart ached for him.

She wanted to call, but she honoured Harry's wishes and didn't. It was after five now, and she didn't want to leave the shop without answering his letter, so she sat, after the bookshop closed, and typed a response.

_My dear Will,_

_Let me assure you, I know the man I love. I love him still and will always. He's a man with integrity, compassion and honour, no matter how you might feel about him at this moment. As we discussed long ago, that man has good reasons for everything he does. You need no forgiveness from me, but if it will ease the pain you're feeling, I give it completely, with all my heart. _

_I believe I know what it is you were told to do, having analysed the news we get here. I say that because I don't want you to worry that telling me will make me think less of you, or judge, or criticise. What I will do is love, and trust, and comfort. It's what my heart tells me to do, and I will follow it. _

_The question I believe you're asking yourself is, would you have made the same decision if you hadn't been ordered to do it? This is one of the few times when you have the luxury of judging the decisions of those above you. And I think you know better than most how hard those decisions are to make. _

_Whatever you would have chosen to do, you would have had to live with it, my love. It's the path you've chosen -- you could have been one of the bank tellers, after all, rather than the bank president. And much as I would have loved to see you walk through my door today, I might have turned you on your heel and sent you back to your destiny, to the place where you're so valuable and needed._

_As to the size of your heart, you're right, I may be the only one who knows its true capacity. Not only do I feel its ache through your words, but mine aches in sympathy with it. I know you show detachment to the world precisely because your heart is so big, but I'm so grateful that you show your true self to me. You can trust me with it._

_And finally, as to those people. They join with so many others, past and present, on all sides of conflict. I don't know the reason behind your act, but I do know that you get it right more than you get it wrong. And if this one turns out to be wrong, the scale will still tip in your favour by a large plurality._

_I'm sorry I missed your call. I would have liked to tell you all this. Please call now. I won't let my mobile out of my sight until I hear your voice. You said we were allowed endearments? I love you very, very much._

_Sophie_

Ruth clicked send. She had written it quickly, hoping that she would catch him still there. In fact, he had been and gone to a tense meeting with the Home Secretary, and was just now walking through the pods, talking with Adam on his mobile. Zaf had been taken, and they didn't know where he was. And the virus was threatening Britain with national quarantine.

Harry didn't get back into his office until much later that night. By that time, Adam was infected, Zaf was feared dead, and Asnick was missing, spreading the virus to whoever passed him. Harry spoke the words everyone dreaded. "So it's finally happened. After 300 years, a plague is loose on the streets of London."

But Harry did open his email finally in the early hours of the morning, and Ruth's words did comfort him. By now, the forty on the train had been replaced by the 179 infected in the UK, so he still needed the absolution she offered. He sat at his desk, his head in his hands, and wondered how long he would need to go without sleep. He wondered how they would find a vaccine. And he wondered how on Earth he would tell Ruth about Zaf.

They had found the bodies of those in the van, burned beyond recognition, and Harry knew in the pit of his stomach that he had lost yet another officer. Ruth would not take it well, but he was far beyond keeping something like this from her. He couldn't simply take her comfort when he needed it, and then be guarded about the death of someone she cared for as much as she cared for Zaf.

He thought again about calling, but didn't trust himself. Apart from the fact that it was three in the morning, he wanted the thought and time a letter required. He knew it was less personal than a phone call, but in this moment, he needed it to be. He chose his words carefully in a quick letter to her.

_My dear Sophie,_

_I haven't the time to thank you adequately for the words you wrote, as I'm hoping for a quick lie down and a few hours of much-needed sleep before I start again. I read your letter three times and finally the calm I was seeking descended on me. You are the best combination of logic and compassion I have ever known. You speak to my head and to my heart at the same time, and you know instinctively that it's what's required to comfort me._

_The crisis is not over, it has escalated. Your analysis on this one should be easy, because it's all over the news. Don't worry for me as I'm not in danger, and I intend to keep myself from it, but I have some news that I dread telling you. I want you to take a deep breath and remember the talks we've had, and know that this is the life that we all have chosen._

_Alan is ill and we have no medicine that will make him better. After my few hours of sleep, I will face that challenge, and I have some ideas already working. But this is the difficult news, my love. We believe that the one who found your flat may be lost to us. It was a very brave departure, one that saved others and is worthy of the man we know. I'm aware that you knew his full value better than anyone, but I am only now comprehending it as I sit here in the early hours before dawn, wondering again if anything could have been done differently._

_I know I should call you with this terrible news, but I've managed to convince myself that we will do better in digesting it together through the distance of a letter. I can't afford to analyse or process yet, as I'm still in the trenches, and must move on to salvage what's left. The sound of your voice would, I fear, pull me toward deep sorrow, and that's one indulgence I'm not presently allowed. _

_Later there will be time to grieve. Believe me this time, my love, although I can feel you shaking your head though your tears, right now. Please believe me. We will do it together, in each other's arms._

_Your love is my rock, my dearest Sophie. It's not possible for me to express what it means to me as I sit here. You keep me sane and grounded and fully aware of the basic freedoms this job aims to keep safe._

_I don't know when I'll have time to write again, and I won't be able to call you either. I'll be away tomorrow working toward a solution, and my process for doing that will be unorthodox, to say the least. Please don't worry. You give me much to live for, my love. I'll call you as soon as I can._

_Yours ever and always,_

_Will_

"Sophie, do you know where ... " Isabelle stopped and gasped. "Oh, my dear, oh Sophie, what is it?" She moved quickly to put her arms around her neck, holding her as she sat in the wooden chair.

Ruth sat at the computer, her tears falling heavily on the keyboard in front of her, her sobs echoing through the open spaces of the bookshelves. She was beyond the comfort that Isabelle offered, but on some level, she was grateful for the arms that held her.

Isabelle knew that these were the tears associated with death, this was deep grief, and as Ruth spoke the name, "Zaf ... oh, Zaf ... no ... " Isabelle knew that it was not James that she had lost, but someone else. And Sophie had loved this person, very much, it seemed. Isabelle drew her up out of the chair and put her long arms around the younger woman, the difference in their heights allowing her to enfold her completely as the wracking sobs began to subside.

Once she had calmed somewhat, Isabelle walked Ruth over to the damask chair and sat her down. She put the kettle on quickly and returned to her, pulling the other chair close. "Oh, Sophie, _mon cher_, what has happened? What can I do?"

Ruth took the tissue that Isabelle offered her, but another was quickly needed as her tears continued to roll, large and round, down her cheeks. "S-s-s-omeone d-d-ied. S-someone I l-l-oved." It was all she could say before she lost her ability to speak again. Isabelle patted her knee ineffectually, and then, as she heard the kettle, moved to pour out the tea. She came back with the usual, two china teacups and a plate of cookies. She didn't know what else to do.

Isabelle handed the cup to Ruth, who took it and sipped gratefully. A weak smile crossed her flushed face, swollen with the tears that still fell intermittently. Ruth spoke so softly that Isabelle had to strain to hear her, "Thank you." She took another sip and put the cup down. "He was a very good friend. And he was so young ... " The tears started again as Ruth choked out the last word.

The bell rang in the front of the store and Isabelle looked up toward the doorway. Ruth touched the hand that was on her knee, and said softly, "Go. I'm fine. Thank you, Isabelle. Really, I'm fine."

Isabelle tilted her head, still with a question, but Ruth nodded again, "Go."

"You will call out if you need anything, yes?" Isabelle's face was a mask of concern as she stood and moved toward the doorway.

Ruth looked up at her, "Yes. Thanks." She watched Isabelle go, and then leant back in the chair with a deep sigh. She closed her eyes and he came into view, bundled against the cold, leaning against the cement wall of the docks.

"_If we ever bump into each other, here or abroad?"_

"_I'll smile. I smile at every pretty woman I pass." _

The tears began to fall again, through Ruth's closed eyes.

* * *

Sixteen hours later, Ruth's mobile rang. It was a little after one in the morning, but she wasn't asleep. She was studying the patterns of the ceiling in her bedroom as they floated through the tears that refused to subside. She hadn't been crying all day, in fact, she'd managed to put in a full day at work, wanting to keep busy. But after a hot shower, as soon as she laid down, the picture of Zaf at the dock had returned. He shimmered now in her memory, eyes closed or open.

Another ring. She reached over to the table and picked up her mobile. Her voice was broken, low, disused. "Harry."

He heard it immediately, and his heart clenched in his chest. She accessed all of the grief of this long day, and he knew he had been right to wait. Only his name spoken, and he could feel his own tears beginning to surface. He was home too, lying in the bed he had shared with her for just one night, surrounded by three small, warm creatures, instead of the one he craved.

"Ruth." His voice matched hers, and in fact, they lay there listening to each other's breath for just a moment, feeling the comfort of nearness wash over them. It wasn't what they wanted, but it was so much. Their eyes were closed, and they could almost imagine the other was there.

Finally, Ruth spoke, without care for how she sounded, knowing that the grief and tears could be heard. "Harry, you're okay? You're safe? I heard on the news about the vaccine. You found it?"

"Yes. And Adam is well, we got to him in time."

His voice was so weary, Ruth decided not to ask him all the questions she wanted to ask, about how he had accomplished it. It was enough that he had. "That's good, Harry."

Now the silence hung heavy between them, and they both knew they had to talk about it. Harry sighed, and said simply, "Zaf."

Ruth's chest contracted in a sudden sob, surprising her with its violence. Just hearing his name spoken by someone who had known him made his loss fresh, new, as if she heard it again for the first time. "Oh, Harry ... how? What happened?" This part she needed to know. She wanted to hear that it was fast, painless, a quick shift from this world to the next.

Harry knew that it was slow, and most likely agonising, the combination of a bullet wound and the effects of the virus, coupled with God knows what else. His body still hadn't been found. Harry lied to her, the prerogative he had told her he would use when necessary. "He didn't feel anything, Ruth. It was fast." He heard her sigh softly, with a ragged catch caused by the tears.

"Thank God. Thank you, Harry. That helps somehow."

Another silence, and finally, Harry said, "I wanted to call to let you know that I was okay, but also to tell you how much your letter ... how much your love ... has helped to keep me going, my Ruth. I felt like a coward telling you about Zaf that way, but I couldn't hear your voice and do the job I had to do. Do you understand?"

She did, completely. "Yes. You did the right thing. And it's so good to hear you now."

"I saw an old friend today, an old spy from the Grid, from before you arrived. Connie James. She helped us immensely, and I've asked her to rejoin us. I hope she accepts." Harry paused. "But I wanted to tell you a question that she asked me."

Ruth was silent, listening. Harry continued, "She said, 'No new ring on your finger?' I said something flip like 'can't find one that fits,' but ... I ... this has been a long two days, Ruth. I've been aware on so many levels, of the preciousness of life, and those we love, and ... "

"What are you trying to say, Harry?"

"I want to get married as soon as possible. I know you want the party in England, and I do as well. But life is so short, and things happen so suddenly. We can't see around the next corner, can we?" He stopped, and took a deep breath. "Truth is, I _have_ found one that fits. You and I fit, Ruth."

Ruth smiled for the first time since this morning. She exhaled, relaxing. "When, Harry? I'll marry you this minute if you want. We can always have the party after."

"And it will have to be Sophie Persan, my love. We can't have the records anywhere. But you are Sophie Persan, no one else. And then we'll fix it after." He paused for a moment. "I can't explain why this is so important to me, but something about ... Zaf ... "

"You don't have to explain, Harry. I understand. It's lovely. Come to Paris and marry me on my birthday. Whenever you want. I'll just keep saying yes."

"I love you, Ruth. More than I thought possible."

"I love you, too, Harry. And just in case I didn't make myself clear, yes, yes and yes."

* * *

The cell was cold, dark and wet. His bare feet were nearly frozen and he could hardly feel his hands. It was almost over, he knew that. Almost over, thank God. They had only dressed the bullet wound and he couldn't feel the pain of it anymore, but he knew he was septic. The vaccine had stopped the symptoms of the virus, but he was so weak that he wasn't recovering. It wasn't so bad now, actually. He seemed to have risen above it somehow. He had accepted it, was ready for it. Longed for it.

He didn't even know who was questioning him anymore. He'd been moved so many times, looked at by potential buyers like a prize Sussex bull. He'd been strong and had held his secrets.

Except for one.

That was what tormented him now. Not his jailers, not his torturers, but himself. All they had wanted to know, what they asked over and over, were the names of Security Services agents and officers. He had held them off, but at one point, just before they administered the vaccine, he knew he'd been delirious. And somewhere in that delirium, he had uttered a name.

Sophie Persan.

Zaf knew he'd said it, and through the fog of memory he knew he had said it only because that person didn't exist. He hadn't said Ruth's name, after all. But as he made his way toward what he knew was a certain death, he had to let someone know. He couldn't feel any pain in his feet anyway, so he had scratched a message there, and hoped it would be found.

He lay back on the cell floor, and felt a warmth begin to overtake him. It felt good, peaceful, and he let himself breathe into it. He remembered the hill in Regent's Park where he and Adam had watched Harry and Ruth move into each other's arms so naturally, their love so evident even from that distance. Zaf had never had that kind of love, but he was grateful in his short life at least to have seen it.

He had turned to Adam as they walked up the hill together and smiled. He'd said, "I know what their call letters will be. LV1 and LV2. Love One, and Love Two." Adam had laughed at that, and they'd sat down at the bench feeling there was a goodness about the world.

It was the message he left for Adam. LV2, etched into the sole of his foot. As he drifted finally into the warmth, he hoped his friend would find it. And he hoped it would keep Ruth safe.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER FIFTY**

* * *

"Good grief."

Harry couldn't believe what he was reading. He scanned down the letter that had just arrived.

_10 Downing Street_

_THE PRIME MINISTER_

_Dear Mr Pearce,_

_I am delighted to inform you that, in recognition of your outstanding achievements in the Security sector, Her Majesty the Queen is graciously pleased to confer the honour of Knighthood upon you._

_You are invited to attend a closed ceremony at Buckingham Palace. My secretary will ..._

"Apparently you're already late for your annual psychological profile." Connie stood in the doorway, and at the first sound of her voice, Harry quickly moved the letter under some other papers. He felt his face flush just a bit, and he supposed Ruth was right, he didn't know how to take a compliment. _So how in the name of God am I supposed to take a bloody knighthood?_ He thought Connie might have noticed the letter, but he ignored her as she continued, "Shrink's waiting downstairs."

Harry didn't look up as he spoke, "Welcome to the new caring, sharing Security Services." He was in no mood for a session on the couch. The day had already started very badly. A British cargo plane down in the American military base at Halesworth. Malcolm dispatched there to speak to the group of UFOlogists that may have shot it down. Adam still distracted and not following orders. And Ros missing, following up leads on Zaf's capture.

Although Harry had yet to glance up at her from his desk, Connie was not going away. In fact, she seemed to be quite at home standing in his doorway. "She said to remind you that after two postponements they have powers to suspend you."

"_Apres moi, le deluge_." French always made Harry think of Sophie, and a wry smile crossed his face, but in this case it was entirely appropriate. He had barely caught his breath after the vaccine was found, and now today, new challenges. A downed plane, a missing officer, and a Knighthood. A part of Harry's brain, a small part, was thinking, _Brilliant, suspend me, I dare you. You lot can deal with the flood of problems that follow_.

What would he do if he were suspended? He would go straight into Ruth's arms. And for the hundredth time, Harry told himself he had to find a balance between the reality of MI5 and the fantasy of the beach in Cyprus, because that's where his mind always went now when it looked for escape. Phrases would whisper unbidden in his head, telling him that perhaps it was time to think of retiring, that he needed to hand the reins off to someone younger, that he had avoided the bullet for as long as could be reasonably expected.

Harry knew all of that would be true someday. He also knew that today, those phrases had everything to do with wanting to be with Ruth. He thought of mornings in hotel rooms, eating breakfasts in terry robes, reading the paper, laughing. Travelling, walking, making love. At times, he wondered what the hell he was doing here, when she was there.

And then, the other part of Harry Pearce took hold. This was the life he'd chosen, his job, and an important one. He would again admit to himself that he loved it almost as much as he loved her. That if he were with Ruth in those places for an extended period of time, he would be missing this life on the Grid in the same melancholy way. And for the hundredth time, he mentally closed the gap between his two selves, blending them into the man who loved his Ruth, but had a job he truly wanted to do.

Harry put his hand to his head and frowned. "How many times have I missed ... ?"

"Five." Connie was not backing down. Her stubbornness simultaneously brought out his deep respect and his sometimes deeper irritation. In this case, Harry knew she was only trying to help him.

He took a deep breath, and his voice softened as he got hold of himself. "Please apologise to her for me, and try to use all your powers to persuade them that I am still sane." He finally looked up at Connie in his doorway, and gave her a small smile, hoping it might charm her into making excuses for him yet again.

"Get down there, or you will be suspended." She turned on her heel and was gone. Harry sighed. Connie James was apparently immune to the famous Harry Pearce charm.

A quarter of an hour later, he was on the dreaded couch, thinking, _God save me from word association exercises_.

"Pleasure?"

"Cricket." _Wish I was at a bloody match right now._

"Longing for?"

"Summer." _She'll be home by then. In our home._

"Hiding from?"

"Aliens." _Analyse that, you nosy damned shrink._

"Alone?"

"Scarlet." _Did I leave water out? Think I forgot again._

"Reward?"

"Chocolate buttons." _Top right drawer of my desk, and I'll need a few after this pointless hour._

"Missing?"

"Something ... someone." _Oh, my Ruth. Three days since we said goodbye in Paris, and yes, I miss you already_.

Harry's heart suddenly hurt, and he wanted so much to hold her. Thank goodness Connie burst in, telling him that Malcolm was reporting in from Halesworth. Harry followed her gratefully out the door. "Thank you, Connie. I think I was just beginning to get maudlin."

The click of their shoes echoed down the narrow hallway. He was actually having a bit of trouble keeping up with her. Connie said dryly, "Don't tell me you were lamenting the fact that there won't be a Lady Pearce to visit the Palace with?"

Harry looked over at her, surprised. Not only did no one know about that letter, it happens that it was exactly what he was lamenting. "Even by your standards, Connie, that's impressive."

"Harry, I haven't just spent my time in Norfolk drinking gin and plotting the Murdoch family's downfall. Oh, and just so's you know, somewhere I have a perfectly serviceable tiara if you need a last minute stand-in. _Sic transit Gloria mundi_, as they say."

* * *

Harry didn't have another minute to think about the Knighthood, or missing Ruth for that matter, until much later. There were lethal chemicals on the plane that went down, and now Malcolm had been exposed. With no way to combat the effects on his body, Malcolm was certain to die. Harry broke the news to him via the relay video. "The prognosis is not good. I can't put a positive spin on this, Malcolm. I'm sorry." Harry knew he had to stay focused, so he pushed away the thoughts that threatened to engulf him. _My friend. My old friend._

A meeting with Bob Hogan in St. James Park, the rest of the day and night at Halesworth, and the relief in the discovery that there were no chemicals after all. Malcolm would survive. Harry finally crawled into bed at nearly 7 a.m. after being certain to set water out for little Scarlet.

It was Saturday morning, and Harry hadn't spoken to Ruth since the early hours on Thursday. She picked up her mobile sleepily, just enjoying the last of a dream. "Harry. Mmmmmmm. Good timing. I think I was just kissing you for some reason."

He chuckled softly. "You need a reason?" A yawn caught him unaware. "I'm calling to say goodnight, my love. I've been up all night and must get some sleep, but I didn't want to go another day without hearing your voice."

Ruth sighed. "You really need to do something about the hours you keep. I worry about you." She snuggled into the pillow with the phone at her ear. "But I am glad you called, Harry. I was going to sneak into the shop today and send you a letter if you hadn't."

"Do that anyway, will you? I love your letters. I read them incessantly when it's just me and the small animals." Harry's head was on the pillow too and his eyes were beginning to close. "I'll write back, because I have things to tell you." His voice was sounding a bit muffled as he pulled the covers around him. "I have to go into my office today anyway. A letter would be good ... "

"Get some sleep, Harry. I'm there with you. Can you feel me?"

"Mmmmmm, yes. I love you, my Ruth. Write to me."

"I love you too, Harry. And I will."

* * *

Harry arrived on the Grid at about 4:30 with take-away Chinese, and of course, remembered Ruth. So many reminders now, as their experiences together grew. In fact, it was unusual to get through even part of a day without seeing something. Necklaces, the hair colour of a woman walking in front of him, Chinese food, a photo of the sea, cats, lingerie in shop windows, travel posters, anything blue.

She lingered in his memory, wafting in and out, and he knew he was smiling more as he walked or drove, probably even as he slept. This was a Harry that was slightly foreign to him. The glass was more than half full, it was close to overflowing. He had to keep reminding himself that it was just happiness. Not a sign of weakness. Not a disease. Just happiness.

He booted up his computer and went straight to his email. Those magnificent words. _RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence. _Harry smiled. They still used the same subject line as a matter of sentimentality.

_My dear Will,_

_You asked for a letter, and here it is, with what's on my mind. I'll warn you now that it is a decidedly one-note symphony, and you'll likely be shaking your head somewhere round the middle of this silly communiqué. I've been thinking quite a lot about the question you asked me again the other night. The one to which I replied, yes, yes, and yes. _

_I find I am entirely and unreservedly happy whenever it crosses my mind, which is often. I had no idea I was such a girl, honestly -- I rather thought I was much more sensible than this delirium is proving me to be. Something ancient, archetypal, has taken hold of me, and I now comprehend the giddiness I've seen in others in similar circumstances. I'm craving the ceremony of it, the promises, the public nature of the act. I also seem to spend an inordinate amount of time looking at my hand and losing track of where exactly I am. _

_Don't laugh, please, as I'm being painfully honest here. Will you be surprised to hear that I spent all of an hour the other day writing out my name as it will be? You should be proud that the rational part of me, the one that retains some semblance of a brain, managed to burn the piece of paper after._

_Although you know I've always seen myself as a romantic, my current lack of logic still comes as a surprise to me somehow. As I've said, Austen has different kinds of heroines, and I've never fully been able to cast myself in the role of the romantic lead. It is, now that I stand here, such a lovely and insensible place to be. I'm so glad I held out hope for it and never compromised._

_That said, if you will forgive me for being demanding before the words are even said, I do have two birthday requests. The first -- I would so much like to share the moment with the same two who initially heard the question. I think another two bottles may be in order as well, at the same establishment? _

_I like the symmetry of that circle, and care for them more and more as I recall our new memories with them. There's a history of experience, the ability to let our true natures shine, and that seems to me to be what the day calls for. I hope it's possible, but if not, there will always be the gift of being alone with you, which is something I treasure._

_The second request -- you gave me your name once before, and I hope to have it again. I don't know how that's accomplished, considering you pledge yourself to a chimera, that which doesn't really exist. Even if it's not real, I'd like to hear the words spoken, somehow. Those words I wrote over and over again on the piece of paper I burnt became very precious to me in that hour. _

_As I mentioned above, logic seems to have deserted me of late. I'm hoping this will be the exception rather than the rule of our future, that my current mood is an aberration, due to the newness of it, but I'm not promising that's the case. I continue to think that nothing, and everything, makes sense. And I leave you, certainly shaking your head by now, with just these thoughts. I am astonishingly happy. And I love you._

_Now I beg you to call me and tell me I'm sane. I truly need to hear it._

_Your Elizabeth Bennett at last,_

_Sophie_

Harry laughed as he finished, and marvelled again at how they read each other's thoughts, how they told each other exactly what the other needed to hear. He had been wondering about his own sanity just moments ago, but after reading her letter, he felt much better. The idea of her labouring with pen and paper, writing _Ruth Elizabeth Evershed Pearce_ and every variation thereof, was a charming one. Harry smiled to himself. It's only happiness. Not a disease.

There was only one dark cloud on Harry's outlook, and it was characterised by an urgency to get to Paris, to make the dream a reality for both of them. Although he wouldn't admit it to Ruth, he was beginning to feel worried about his ability to get away. His early morning chat with Bob Hogan in the belly of that plane at Halesworth had put up so many red flags for Harry that he wasn't even sure which one to tackle first.

The Americans, the Iranians, Copenhagen, those who captured and tortured Zaf, the train blast in Tehran, weapons of mass destruction, all of it was linked somehow, and new information was coming in every day. Harry wondered if those few days with Ruth on Cyprus and in Baghdad were the last calm hours before a long and ominous storm. Reading her letter again, Harry did his best to push away his doubts.

Ruth's letter came from the innocence of being away from the Grid for ... he looked at his calendar ... sixty-one days, and Harry wanted some of that innocence, for one day and one night. As Ruth had said to him before Bath, the world would just have to turn without him for a time. On Tuesday early in the morning, he would take the train to Paris, they would get married, celebrate with Tom and Christine, and have a one-night honeymoon at Ruth's flat, which Harry was remembering now with more fondness every time he thought of it.

And Tom and Christine were an inspired idea. Harry had been concerned about the two of them standing up alone, likely with a pair of strangers. It hadn't felt quite right somehow, too clinical, too distant. This was the answer, and it was Ruth who had suggested it, which was even better.

Well, no time like the present. Harry opened his mobile to make sure they were free before he called Ruth. Tom answered, and Harry got right to the point. "Are you free on Tuesday?"

Harry could hear papers shuffling, "Think so. Yes. We have some figures to go over with the accountant, but that can be done anytime. We could postpone it. What's up?"

"I'd like you to stand up for me. As best man. And Christine as matron of honour for Ruth."

The silence on the other end of the line dragged for just a little too long. "Tom? You there?"

Harry heard a deep breath, and then, "Yes ... Wow, God, Harry. Sorry, I'm slightly speechless. Honoured, very pleased to be asked. Yes, of course. I'll ask Christine, but I know her answer. Of course we will." Now Tom was regaining his breath, and his voice was excited, "So fast? What brought this on?"

Harry sighed, smiling. "We think we've waited long enough. Life is too short as it is, don't you think?"

Tom answered softly, "I couldn't agree more." A pause. "I'm so glad for you both, Harry."

Suddenly Tom heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, and Harry said softly, "Oh, my God."

"Harry, what is it?"

While he had been talking to Tom, Harry was glancing idly at the papers on his desk. He had just realised that for the first time in recent memory, he had a date with two women on the same day. One of them was the woman he was going to marry. The other was Her Majesty the Queen of England.

Harry's voice was small, distant, "Not Tuesday, Tom."

Tom frowned, "_Not_ Tuesday?" He paused for a moment, confused. "What day, then?"

"I'll have to get back to you on that. Sorry." Harry sounded distracted, remote. "I just realised I have another commitment on that day, but I'll let you know soon, yes?"

"Yeah, sure, Harry. Whenever. We'll make the time." Tom was hearing something in his friend's voice, "Are you okay?"

Harry inhaled and got hold of himself. "Yes, fine. I'm not looking forward to telling Ruth, is all. We'll need to find another day." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Tuesday is her birthday. We wanted it to be that date, but we'll have to find another."

"She'll understand, Harry. Ruth understands."

"Yes, I'm sure she will. Thanks, Tom. I'll be in touch."

He closed his mobile and took a deep breath before opening it again. He pressed Ruth's number and waited for her to pick up, drumming his fingers softly on the desk.

Her voice was light, almost laughing, and he could tell she was outside, probably on a busy street. "Are you calling to tell me I'm completely daft?"

Harry relaxed and smiled. _She'll understand_. "If you are, then I am as well, my love. Haven't been burning any paper lately, but I've had the same thoughts. I keep thinking there's something wrong with me, but I'm simply happy." Harry laughed softly. "Unfamiliar feeling, happiness. Have to get used to it, I suppose."

"I'm shopping. Let me get somewhere a little quieter." The noise started to subside. "It's lovely, all the benches in Paris. They're tucked away in the most amazing places. There, found one."

Harry knew he was stalling. "What are you shopping for?"

"None of your business. I'm not the only one getting a gift on Tuesday."

_Okay, stalling over_. "Ruth, there's something I have to tell you."

A pause. The lightness disappeared from her voice. "You sound very serious, Harry. Are you all right?"

Without thinking, he just blurted it out. "I'm being given a Knighthood."

"God, Harry, that's fantastic! How wonderful!"

"On Tuesday."

Her voice fell. "Oh."

They both sat in silence for a moment, not knowing what to say. Finally, Harry spoke. "You know there is no one in the world who could change our plans, except perhaps Her Majesty." To the quiet on the other end of the line, Harry said, "I'm sorry, Ruth. I'm so sorry. I hope you know where I'd rather be."

Ruth had found her breath, and she answered quietly, "I do know that, Harry. I do. Just bad luck is all. It doesn't have to be Tuesday. Gives me my birthday back, you know? This way I get two presents every year, birthday _and_ anniversary, not just one." Her voice trailed off. "I was worried about that, you getting away with just one present every year."

Harry put his head in his hand, desolate. "Oh, Ruth." He didn't know what to say. "I love you, and I want this very much."

Now she felt a need to comfort him, and her voice rose just a little, "I know that. And we'll have it. Just not on Tuesday." She forced a smile into her voice, "Don't worry, Harry. It gives me more time to plan. Wednesday, then?" A small pause. "No, Thursday, May Day. May 1st, that way we'll never forget it. No, wait, that's Labour Day here, nothing will be open, so Friday, then."

"Friday." Harry opened his calendar. No meetings with the Home Secretary, nothing scheduled. "Nothing in my calendar." But once bitten, twice shy. "Ruth ... I never know ... "

He heard her sigh softly, but her voice held logic, not blame. "Harry, I know what it's like. You can't really know, can you? Is this a good idea? Making plans?"

He answered her quickly. "Yes." Suddenly Adam's words came into his head. _Oh, come on, Harry, who are you kidding? No one in this place has time for a real life._ "But I want you to know, in case some emergency ... or like last night, I had no idea I would be needed all night, and that I wouldn't be able to contact you ... but it was important ... "

Ruth laughed softly, without rancour. "Harry, don't. If anyone understands your job, don't you think it would be me?" Ruth paused for a moment, watching the people walking by at a slight distance. "Let me tell you something, Harry. And I want you to hear this and know it absolutely. You and I are already married. We were married in the Hotel Britannique, in a lovely, simple, private ceremony in a soft bed. When I said those words to you, I committed myself to you as fully as if we were standing in a church in front of hundreds of people."

Harry closed his eyes, letting his whole being focus on the voice in his ear. When he answered, his own voice was soft, and low, and he felt himself calming. "I know. I feel the same."

Ruth continued. "So I am your wife, and you are my husband." Ruth paused for a moment, taking in what she had just said. She repeated it, more softly, "I am your wife, Harry. Oh, I like the sound of that." She went on, "We only have to sign the papers. Somewhere, sometime, in this world that you're needed to save, we'll do that. And, after all, do any two people know more about the transitory and very fluid nature of legal papers?"

Harry managed a small smile. "No, I suppose not. But I want these legal papers, the real ones. I want it to be official, Ruth."

"And it will be. We'll try for Friday, but if you call me and let me know that there's a crisis, we'll find another day." She paused, and her voice became even softer. "It's very romantic, and it's a lovely idea, but it's a formality, Harry. Nothing more, nothing less."

His head still in his hands, Harry said quietly, "I should have married you when I had the chance, in Polis. I keep seeing you in a white dress on the beach, with tropical flowers in your hair."

Ruth sighed, and closed her eyes against the busy Paris street. "I can see it too, Harry. Maybe we should just plan for that. You tell me when you can get away, will you? Would Tom and Christine come?"

After the letter he had just received from her, her sweet romanticism about their plans, Harry was suddenly overcome by the lack of blame in her voice, the concealed disappointment, the calmness. "You're a very understanding woman, my Ruth, and I fear I don't deserve you."

"Yes, you do. We deserve each other, entirely." Suddenly, Ruth laughed softly. "I just thought of something. I'll be _Lady_ Pearce, Harry. Oh, my God, now you _have_ to marry me. Sir Harry and _Lady_ Ruth Pearce." She laughed again, incredulous, "Bloody hell."

Harry laughed too. "I feel another burnt piece of paper in your future."

She was still laughing, "Straight away when I get back to the flat. First thing."

Harry's voice was soft, gentle, "Friday, my love. We'll try for Friday."

"Yes, Harry. And you owe me a letter. Address it to Lady Pearce, if you please."

She was still laughing when she rang off.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE**

* * *

"I don't feel like being honoured, not publicly, not privately, not at all." Harry grimaced as he slipped into the morning coat that Connie held for him.

He turned, and she began straightening his lapels, clucking like a mother hen. "Oh, don't be so snooty. Besides, giving a K to a member of the Security Services is merely a way for the government to rubber stamp themselves. It isn't about you."

"I'll try and remember my place," Harry murmured. As she tightened the knot on his tie, he thought it might as well be a noose.

Ruth's birthday. The day they were to be married. He didn't mind the coat and tie, in fact, he was going to be wearing this today in either case. But what a different look there would be on his face if it were Ruth across from him creating one of her perfect Windsor knots. If her face were this near to his, the hint of a smile, the love shining through the green in her eyes. Harry closed his eyes, imagining his own Lady Pearce, dressed for an audience with the Queen. Not a normal occurrence, certainly, but he and Ruth as a normal couple. On this day, Harry was longing for normal.

First thing this morning he had called her. He'd waited until midnight, and called at just the stroke after, awakening her because he said he wanted to be the very first to be with her on her birthday. He so loved the sleepy sound of her voice next to his while they were both warm in their beds, and when he closed his eyes he could almost imagine her next to him. He'd sung "Happy Birthday" to her in the deepest, slowest, most seductive tones he could muster, and she'd laughed through the entirety of it.

Of course he had sent her a gift, a number of them, actually. First thing, a coffee and fresh-baked, warm croissant for both Sophie and Isabelle, sent to the shop with a card from Will Arden. Then, at noon, a mammoth bunch of tropical flowers that made Isabelle laugh with joy as they threatened to engulf Ruth behind them, this time from Giles Farmer. In the afternoon, there were Belgian chocolates with a note from Henry James, saying that he _still_ thought they were the best kind of gift to give a sweetheart.

As Harry moved toward the pods with Connie, he knew that Ruth was still at work. But, he thought with just the hint of a smile, when she arrives home, there will be a note to call a number, and minutes later, the exact dinner they had eaten at the Royal Bombay Indian Restaurant will miraculously appear at her door.

The bearer of the dinner will hand her an exquisitely wrapped package. When she opens it, she will find a book, a large, rich volume, elegantly illustrated, whimsically collected, called, "Blue: The History of a Colour" by Michel Pastoureau, a French author. The card will read, "_To my exceptionally beautiful wife, from your exceedingly loving husband. I wish so much that I could be with you tonight, for so many reasons. I will call you at one minute before midnight so that I will have spent all of your birthday with you. Je t'aime. H._"

So, understandably, as Harry opened the car door for his Lady Pearce stand-in, he was missing someone. He appreciated Connie, certainly. At least he wouldn't have to go through this alone, and she could be very amusing in the face of pomp and circumstance. She would keep him from running from the room, and that was a blessing. He was grateful for her, and very grateful that she had forgone the tiara for what he assumed was a very appropriate purple hat. But she wasn't his Ruth. No one was.

A Knighthood. Good God. Harry could never have imagined this for himself. It wouldn't occur to him. And Harry was feeling enormously cynical today. He knew he wasn't taking this honour at all in the spirit in which it was given, but he just couldn't raise himself into an acceptable mood.

Part of the reason Harry was a bit out of sorts was that he was realising the premonition he had on Saturday, about the necessity of his presence on the Grid, had been correct. Even without the Knighthood, he never could have gone to Paris today. As he drove out of the car park, Harry thought he shouldn't really even be going to Buckingham Palace. There was too much going on. He should be staying right here.

The last couple of days had been stressful to say the least. Bob Hogan had been a permanent resident on the Grid, and Harry hadn't felt he could leave him alone for a moment. Just yesterday, Adam saved the Iranian Special Consul from a car bomb that almost took Jo's life as well. And now there was a threat on the horizon for Iran to become a fully capable nuclear power. The entire Grid was focused on a courier who was carrying the final piece of the puzzle, the switches Iran needed to arm their weapons.

And although Harry had always felt he could leave the Grid in Adam's capable hands, even Adam was worrying him more and more. Now he seemed to have transferred his affections from Ros to his contact in the Iranian Embassy, who happened to be the Special Consul's wife. A very dangerous and complicated relationship, and Harry was feeling a need to keep an eye on Adam.

Not to mention the fact that Ros wasn't seeming too keen on Adam either, which was leaving her distracted. She seemed always to have her mind elsewhere. So Harry's two senior officers were not at their best, and he simply didn't feel in good conscience that he could leave the volatile security of the realm in their hands. He feared he wouldn't be going to Paris anytime soon.

And Harry couldn't shake the feeling in the pit of his stomach that no matter how many plans he and Ruth made, there would always be something that would keep him in London. At least in the near future.

This feeling was what Harry's old friend Bill Crombie had called "pushing the river." Bill had said you could find yourself going in circles trying to accomplish something, running into brick walls and roadblocks, expending energy, or you could simply let the river take you where it would and save yourself for a time when you _could_ have an effect on things. The key was knowing when it was important to fight the river and when it was important to let go.

These were the thoughts going through Harry's mind as he waited his turn in the presence of the Queen. Then he and his knees made it through the ceremony without embarrassment, and after putting in an appearance at the reception, Harry drove Connie home before making his way back to the Grid to get some work done. He'd finish up and then go home in time to call Ruth before midnight.

_Ruth_. Harry sighed into the thought of her as he drove. He saw her smile, the intelligence in her eyes, the deep love she felt for him. If he continued to put his job first, he wondered how long it would be before she began to feel as Jane had, that there was no place for her in his life.

Maybe he was being too hard on Adam, he was being too pessimistic. Perhaps he needed to reassess. One day was all he was asking. Adam could hold it together for one day, couldn't he? If Friday didn't work out, and he suspected it wouldn't, as soon as he possibly could, he would hand the Grid over to Adam again. He and Ruth would travel back to Polis and marry there as they should have in the first place. One day of peace, he owed her that.

He returned to the Grid, only to find that Adam was in real trouble. Murder from the looks of it. Indiscretion at a safe house with Anna, the wife of the Iranian Special Consul. A mugger who turned out to be a journalist. A back alley fight, and now the journalist was close to death from a head wound. And the journalist was investigating the bomb on the train in Tehran. It was all unravelling.

And Harry's one day of peace, with Adam at the helm of the Grid, disappeared.

Harry went to Adam's flat to wait for him, but while he waited, he had a promise to keep, and at one minute to midnight, as promised, he called Ruth. Except he wasn't in bed, and he wasn't in the playful mood he'd hoped for. He was looking out of the window onto the buildings below, waiting to send his senior officer into temporary exile.

She wasn't sleepy this time, she was wide awake. His heart tightened at the sound of her voice. "Harry, I'm looking at the most exquisite book. And it's given me so many colours that you'll never be able to compete. You've virtually conceded the game, you know."

Harry smiled in spite of himself, "That was my plan, my love. I wanted you to win. It's your final birthday gift."

Now her voice was soft, seductive, "I'm wearing the one you like, Harry. The blue one." She purred, "How late do the trains run? I miss you."

Harry closed his eyes, and exhaled loudly, "Ah, my Ruth. You can't imagine how tempting that is."

"Can you? Her Majesty has finished with you, yes?"

"Yes, but ... " Harry stopped, unsure about how much to say.

Ruth's voice grew serious. "You're dealing with a problem. This late? It must be a bad one, Harry." She paused for a moment. "You're not in danger?"

"No, not me, but Adam is. I'm waiting for him. And I have to take care of this tonight." Harry began to pace from the window to the kitchen and back. "There's a lot going on, Ruth. I'm not going to be able to get away. I don't know how long, but we're at a critical juncture. The decisions I make will have long-reaching consequences."

"And you need to make them without distractions." Ruth sighed. "I distract you, don't I, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "No. You calm me. You nurture me. You keep me sane." He took a deep breath. "But I want so much to be there with you right now. I feel torn in two. I stand here thinking of you, and if I were there with you, I'd be thinking of this."

He heard her shift, probably sitting up. Her voice shifted as well, and Harry suddenly heard the voice of Ruth on the Grid. "Harry. This has to stop." She was the analyst, logically laying out the facts. "You're not doing your job well, I can hear it. You're distracted, and as you put it, torn. So you're not with me, and you're not there, and that's absurd, because the Grid is losing, and so am I."

She hoped Harry wouldn't protest, and he didn't. He simply listened, with his forehead against the cool pane of the window. Ruth continued, more softly, "I was needy when I first got here, but I'm better. I have a flat that now has memories of you, I know my way around Paris and I'm beginning to feel somewhat at home here. Isabelle is a wonderful friend, and she would do more with me if I wanted, museums, dinners, shopping. I haven't even visited the bloody Louvre yet, Harry."

"I know."

She could hear some guilt in his voice, and she leapt on it. "It's not your responsibility to get me to the Louvre, Harry. I have strong legs, and a fine mind. And much as I would love to go there with you, I can get there on my own." Ruth took a pause. "I was thinking about all this tonight as I lay here waiting for your call. It feels like we're pushing against this great weight, you and I. Trying to move a huge boulder, our shoulders against it, and it just won't budge. I've been grasping at you, trying to pretend there aren't extraordinary circumstances here, like I'm on some sort of holiday in Paris. I'm in exile, Harry."

"And I'm trying to get you home." She could hear anger beginning in his voice, "As soon as I have a bloody _minute_ of peace."

"Harry. I'm all right here, and you mustn't worry about me. I spent my birthday counting my blessings, and there are so many. I was thinking again about all the wives waiting for their husbands in the military, how they're separated for long periods of time, not a letter, or a call, and constant worry. I have letters, and your voice on the phone, and visits. Our trip to Cyprus, for God's sake. I'm so lucky, Harry. And you love me, I know that completely."

"I do, Ruth. My heart feels like it might burst with it sometimes." He laughed softly, his head still against the window, enjoying the cold against his warm forehead. "Like right now. Exactly like right now. I ache for you."

Her voice softened. "I know. But I have to keep reminding myself how much more we have than so many others." She spoke so softly that he could barely hear her. "Zaf. I think about Zaf. Don't we have a responsibility to be happy with all the wonderful things we're given?" She looked down at the ring on her finger. "We have so much, Harry. So much."

He began pacing again. She was, as usual, making perfect sense. And he was beginning to feel less torn, although he wanted her no less.

Ruth continued. "I'm telling you that I don't want to be one of the things you worry about. We'll get married one day, but it will be when you have a clear mind to concentrate completely on it. I don't want the memories of our wedding muddled up with where you felt you should have been instead. You've asked me, Harry, and I've said yes. You've given me a ring, and I look at it every day, knowing we are pledged to each other. So, do your job, and when the time is right, it will happen naturally, without us pushing it."

Harry sighed. She had given him the greatest gift possible. The gift to simply be himself and do what he needed to do, with the promise that her love would still be there. "You're more understanding than I could ever have hoped."

"Yes, I am." She paused. "And I love that you called me your wife in your note."

Harry felt really relaxed for the first time today. He walked over to sit at Adam's kitchen counter. "You _are_ my wife, Lady Pearce."

Ruth laughed. "Oh, God, yes. How did it go? Were you suitably humble?"

"I didn't embarrass myself, if that's what you're asking."

"And Connie went with you?" She paused. "I feel a little jealous twinge when I say that, Harry? Do I need to?"

Now Harry laughed. "Connie? Christ, no. She thinks she's my mother, and I guess at times lately it looks as if I need one. Not a romantic inclination in sight, on either side, believe me. She's a tough one, Ruth. She actually managed to get me in with the therapist last week, threatening suspension."

Ruth's tone was teasing. "And what was the result? Are you in your right mind, Harry?"

"I did mention something about aliens, but the doctors haven't come round yet, so I must not be dangerous."

Ruth laughed. "I had a lovely birthday, Harry. Thank you for all the gifts. And as I struggled under the weight of those flowers, the smell of them, I was thinking more and more about Polis. I do believe that's where I would ultimately like to get married. This summer, I think. Maybe if we plan far ahead, all the chess pieces will line up perfectly and we could have a week there together. I think we should visualise that, and it will happen."

Harry let out a sigh of relief. "You're right, this has been weighing on my mind more than I thought. Yes, summer. And I can see you in that white dress, a flowing one, with flowers in your hair."

They both sat in silence for a moment, and then Harry said, "I should go. Adam will be here any minute, and I'm not looking forward to the conversation I need to have with him."

Ruth's voice was soft. "I'm sorry you're working so late. I wish I could put my arms around you."

Harry cradled the phone next to his ear. "Oh, I wish you could too, my Ruth." He sighed and closed his eyes, "I'll make do with imagination. Happy birthday, my love."

"You made it beautiful, Harry. And you were right. Belgian chocolates are a lovely gift. It's all in who's doing the giving."

He chuckled, with an 'I told you so' air, "Yes, see? No woman can resist them. Why will no one listen to me?"

"I bow to your greater experience. All of it, the flowers, the dinner, which will last me for days, by the way, the morning coffee, the book. Everything, lovely and sweet and thoughtful. My Harry. I do love you so."

"Ah, my Ruth. And I love you. Sleep well. And I haven't forgotten I owe you a letter."

* * *

Harry's sleep cycles were seriously compromised. As he was driving home, he realised he wouldn't be going to sleep anyway. There was only one person he wanted to be with, and it was Ruth. And the way to be with her at three o'clock in the morning was to write her the letter now.

So he turned his car toward the Grid, toward the place he had spent the most time with her. Where they had first met, where he learned of her intelligence, her beauty, her integrity, where he had fallen in love with her, where he had first wanted her, touched her, dreamt of her.

_To my Lady (at your request),_

_I write this not to Sophie, but to you. My soulmate. The love of my life. My wife. I do love the sound of that word when applied to you._

_I sit here feeling an intense gratitude for your strength, your patience, your good sense, your love for me. I've worried so much in the last few days about not being able to meet your expectations, and I find at last that the expectations are mine, the disappointment is mine, the urgency is mine. I don't say I want it more than you do, I have simply been less patient as regards when. There is a calm in you that I don't possess, but I aspire to it._

_I suppose it's because nothing as wonderful as this has ever happened in my life. Now that I know it, I find I fear its loss, and I worry that for some reason there won't be enough time, that the dream will remain out of reach. But then I hear your voice, and the doomsayers cease their drumbeat in my head, and I believe again. _

_You are suddenly the realist and I take your place as the romantic. You console me with your words, that the deed is already done in our hearts and we are simply waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. Patience. You are my guide._

_What a journey we're on, my love. From that first night that I found you shivering on my doorstep, I had an inkling of what we could be, but I couldn't have imagined this because I didn't have the tools or the experience of what two people could be together. You are woven into me, as integral as bones or flesh, and wherever this journey takes us, you are there, always._

_So keep your eyes on that patch of sand and the summer sun, and I will as well. I will wear an open shirt, white linen, and a flower in my lapel. You in flowing white, with a flower in your hair. Barefoot as natives, both of us. The sea crashing, as it always has, and Aphrodite smiling on us._

_I love you endlessly, _

_Sir Will_


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO**

* * *

If it was possible for the Head of MI5 and his beloved officer-in-exile to fall into a routine, Harry and Ruth did. The freedom she had given him allowed Harry finally to relax and concentrate on the challenges at hand, and they were abundant. And Ruth, as she always seemed to, had created a place for herself where she was rapidly becoming indispensible. She watched with great pleasure as Isabelle's bank balance rose steadily with the increased sales from the website.

Harry called her every night, but Friday came and went, and now they were at the end of another Friday. They longed for each other, and spoke of it often, but each kept their eyes on that beach in Polis and waited for the summer sun. In fact, they laughed as they talked about how often each of them found themselves typing "Polis Cyprus" into Google. Restaurants, hotels, cottages, beaches, all became as familiar as if they were walking the narrow streets together every day. Polis became, for both of them, a symbol of another time. A time when they would _have_ time. For travel, for making love, for a wedding.

They dreamt, and they worked, and they loved each other. They thought about the future, and they promised themselves that when they were finally together, they would never take it for granted. They made their way through their busy days, and the last thing they heard each night was the other's voice saying _I love you_.

Harry didn't tell Ruth about the disastrous failure of an operation that saw Ros and Adam on a plane to Tehran, chasing the triggers that Iran needed for their nuclear missiles. Not only did the triggers get to Iran, but Ros and Adam were responsible for the death of a CIA agent who was on the plane to back them up.

Harry spoke to Ruth in general terms about his job, but she knew him well enough to know he was under a tremendous amount of pressure. So she was gentle with him, and held back any expression of her own loneliness, in order to give him less pain. Harry, in turn, not wanting to distress her, did the same. But they were still crossing days off the calendar, marking time.

Ruth didn't ask him questions about the work he was doing, but she missed the Grid so terribly. Even with her memories of the pain and the loss of colleagues, she still wanted to be back there. She hungered for the puzzle, for the part of it that challenged her, made her think beyond her own boundaries. Christine was right, adrenaline was a drug, and Ruth wanted badly to feel that particular high again.

Instead, she constantly reminded herself of why she was in Paris. She had done what she'd done so that Harry could continue to fight the very fight he was waging right now. Harry never asked her if she regretted it, and Ruth thought it was because he knew it was a futile question. In truth, she thought he knew the answer. Regret? Not really. Boredom, a wish for more, a desire for him, and for home. But no, Ruth didn't feel regret. Faced with the same situation, she would make the same choice again.

Yet for all of her brave talk, she missed him dreadfully. Memories that threatened her reason would accost her at odd moments. She would see a flash of his teasing smile, the one that rose slightly higher on one side of his mouth than the other. Some people thought Harry never smiled, but Ruth knew he had a dozen of them, some full and open, some uninhibited, some vulnerable, some born of pure love.

And then, one afternoon, she was standing on a stool, pulling a book down from a top shelf, and the sudden memory of his bare arm and its soft, golden hairs in the morning sunlight almost caused her to lose her footing. She held tight to the shelf, laughing at the level of her own insanity. Isabelle had gotten used to these moments, and once she had been assured of Sophie's safety, would shake her head in memory of those days in her own life, smiling and saying, "Ah, love."

So it was Friday again, and another week-end loomed for Ruth. She'd only talked to Harry for a few moments last night, as he took a break from an all-night session of the JIC. That was all he had told her. That, and that it was likely he wouldn't be able to call her tonight until very late, if at all. She wanted to ask why, and she was still concerned about his lack of sleep, but she held her tongue. What she always asked was if he was in danger. This time he had chuckled and said, "Only from the effects of horrible coffee and even more appalling food."

And because he wouldn't be calling, she'd made a plan with Isabelle. Dinner and a film, "Hors de Prix" or "Priceless," with much the same story as "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Isabelle's pleasant company, the lovely actress Audrey Tautou, and a film with a romantic ending, just Ruth's cup of tea. The movie was over at ten, and Ruth and Isabelle decided to stop for dessert.

They chatted about the film for a while, and suddenly, Isabelle frowned, remembering something. "Ah, Sophie, I forgot to tell you. There was a couple today, in the shop, when you were out at the bank, asking for you. Or, I should say, they asked if Sophie Persan was employed at the shop."

Ruth's first thought was that Tom and Christine had come to surprise her. She smiled, "British man, American woman? Tall man, blonde woman?"

"No, dear, both French. The woman had dark hair, the man blonde, or light brown. Absolutely French. And not tall, medium height, I would say."

Ruth's smile moved slowly into a frown. "And what did you tell them?"

Isabelle smiled slyly. "I told them I had never heard of a Sophie Persan, that my employee was a Mlle. Ardenne." Isabelle said, remembering, "They seemed like nice people, very kind, but I didn't feel ..." She trailed off, unsure.

Ruth tilted her head. "That was quick thinking, Isabelle." A cold feeling was starting in the pit of her stomach. _Who would be asking for Sophie Persan?_

Isabelle looked deeply into Ruth's eyes. "You are in trouble?" She paused, waiting for Ruth to answer, and when she didn't, she said softly, "I wonder if you will ever tell me, my dear?" She sipped her coffee, but kept her eyes on Ruth. "I don't want to pry, but I care so much for you. And for your James, who makes you so happy."

Ruth looked down, unable to meet Isabelle's eyes. "I know. And I care for you, as well. It's ... it's very complicated." Ruth shook her head. "I don't know why someone would be asking ... " She stopped and took a deep breath.

Isabelle finished her sentence, "Why they would be asking for you under that name, and not your own?"

Ruth's head moved up sharply, but she saw the sparkle in her companion's eyes, and smiled weakly at her. "Yes, Isabelle. Exactly."

Isabelle raised her eyebrows, "Well, then, it is not so ominous, yes? I am a good reader of people's eyes, my dear. And they were convinced, I believe, that they had got it wrong, that they had the wrong bookshop." She reached across and put her hand over Ruth's. "They were, how do you say, asking around, not just of me, but other shops."

"But why?" Ruth's voice was soft, as she ran through all the places that Sophie Persan's name might be. The flat was leased through a complicated network of names, as was her mobile, not easily traced. She had no credit cards, and Isabelle paid her in cash each week. Her passport? She'd had it with her for Cyprus and Baghdad, but had only shown it twice, and Harry had been there with diplomatic papers each time.

Suddenly she looked up again, "They didn't show you a photo, did they?"

"No, my dear. I didn't get the feeling they knew anything about you. No photograph, no."

"Could you describe them, Isabelle? Write down a description?"

"Oh, yes, I could describe them." She could see now that there was worry in the younger woman's face. "Ah, Sophie, I'm so sorry, I should have thought of this sooner, and should have known it would be upsetting. I was so busy this afternoon, and you were in the back, it simply ... " She made a gesture to her forehead, " ... flew."

Ruth reached over and squeezed Isabelle's hand. "No, no, it's fine." She shook her head and gave a crooked smile. "They asked for the wrong person, Isabelle. No one is looking for Sophie Persan. I must have left my name somewhere ... " Suddenly it came to her, and she inhaled sharply. "Ah, the jewellery shop."

Isabelle looked at her, questioning, and Ruth said quickly, "A ring. For James." Unconsciously, Ruth touched her own ring with her other hand. She smiled at Isabelle with radiant joy on her face. "He's asked me to marry him."

Isabelle clapped her hands together in front of her mouth, and released a deep sigh, "Oh, Sophie! How wonderful!"

"I was talking to the girl about how I worked in a shop, a bookshop, I said, near la Place des Vosges. And I did leave her my name to hold the ring until I got back to her. I didn't think that name would ... " Ruth visibly relaxed, exhaling, "Yes, I'm sure that was it. I should have let her know." Now she looked at Isabelle, slightly sheepish. "I need his size."

Isabelle held Ruth's hand up and looked at the ring she was wearing. "It is very beautiful, my dear." She picked up the glasses she'd used to read the menu, and put them on her nose. Bending down close to it, she squinted, and then peered over her glasses at Ruth with a smile. "There is more here than meets the eye, isn't there?" She laughed and said very softly, "You spies. Everything must be clever, yes?"

Suddenly, seeing it through Isabelle's eyes, Ruth was struck with the absurdity of it all, and she laughed. "Yes, Isabelle, I suppose so." She gently extracted her hand, and took a sip of her tea, trying to cover the slight blush that had come to her cheeks. "You're a good friend, Isabelle. A dear friend. Thank you."

Isabelle smiled and removed her glasses. "No, my dear, I must thank you. You have given me a wonderful puzzle. Hortense and Richard? Hermoine and Robert? Or perhaps, Horatio and Rebecca?" At Ruth's laugh, she continued, "Endless hours of speculation, my dear friend. Invaluable for a single lady of middle age."

Ruth looked at her, suddenly serious. "I will tell you someday, Isabelle. Not today, but someday. I do trust you, but ... it's so important ..."

Isabelle shook her head, "No, no, Sophie. I am teasing you. You keep your secrets, and you stay safe." Now her face became serious as well. "And I want you to know something. If you should ever, ever need anything from me, at any time, day or night, you come to me and get it. I would do anything for you, my dear." Isabelle felt overcome by emotion suddenly as she remembered. "Your James was my angel of mercy. He gave me so many wonderful years of life with Pierre." She looked up again, and there were tears in her eyes. Intensely, she said, "And you have already done so much for me, too. Anything, my Sophie. Anything, ever that you need."

Ruth heard the sincerity in her voice, and said, "Thank you, Isabelle."

Now Isabelle beamed at her. "I am so happy for you, my dear." She leant forward, as if she were telling Ruth a secret. "He is such a good man."

Ruth leant forward too, and took Isabelle's hands again. She whispered as well. "Yes, I know."

* * *

As Isabelle and Ruth were having this conversation, Harry was watching a television show. Not at home, but from the Grid. And not for entertainment, but because the life of every person in the studio was in danger.

The reason Harry was working late tonight was the live broadcast of "Ask the Question," with three very special guests. Iranian Special Consul Darius Bakhshi, the Foreign Secretary, and Bob Hogan. Signifying the confidence of all three governments, they agreed to sit together and be interrogated by a studio audience. Ros, Adam and Ben Kaplan were members of that audience, and although Harry had jokingly suggested filling in the rest of the seats with pacifist Suni poets, things had gone terribly wrong.

Suddenly standing and holding a gun to a woman's head, a member of the audience shouted out, "Does Iran have a nuclear bomb?" and Harry knew this would be a long night. He was going on two hours of sleep after the JIC meeting, and he wondered how long he would be able to keep this up. It didn't help that this television broadcast had been his idea. Now the station was under siege and locked down.

The audience listened in horrified silence as it was disclosed that Iran now had nuclear capability. They heard things that were never meant to be uttered outside of the most private and secure top-level government meetings. And they watched as the Iranian Special Consul was shot, and the man who began the siege was killed.

Two hours after it began, it was over, and Harry stood in front of the studio audience. "Good evening, everyone. I'd like to thank you on behalf of the British government for your bravery throughout this terrible ordeal. The world outside does not yet know that the siege has ended, and it cannot know until we have agreed what happened here tonight." Applications for entrance into the Security Services were passed out to everyone in the room as Harry continued.

"I have a job for you. As of this moment you are all invited to become employees of Her Majesty's Intelligence Services. Although you will return to your normal lives, you will remain in our employ until the day you die. You will experience huge pressure to tell what you know, but no one must know what was said in here tonight. On the back of the paperwork, there is a copy of the Official Secrets Act. No one leaves this room until both the terms of the contract and the Secrets Act are agreed to. We're in no rush, for there can be no refusals. We're all spies now."

It was a very long night. There were a dozen refusals, arguments, complaints and rebuttals from various members of the audience, and Harry had to keep the doors locked until everyone complied. He wheedled, cajoled, coaxed, persuaded, and charmed in every way possible. And when there was nothing else to say to the one last male dissenting voice, he threatened, softly, and with unmistakeable authority. Finally, at just after midnight, the papers were collected, the doors were opened, and Harry went gratefully to his car.

To call her or not, that was always the question. She never seemed to mind him waking her, and selfishly, he did love the sound of her voice freshly out of sleep. As he drove, he remembered a conversation this afternoon with Darius Bakhshi. He had finally convinced him to appear on the television programme by offering safety for Bakhshi's wife, by way of a new life in Canada.

"There's a plane leaving tonight for Vancouver. Your wife could be on it with a new identity. And later, in a different world, in a more peaceful world, who knows? You could even be with her." Harry had surprised himself with the softness that came with the words as he spoke them. _In a different world, you could be with her._ How could he say those words and not think of Ruth?

He and Bakhshi were on opposite sides of the global spectrum, but in that moment, Harry felt the scale tip slightly. Perhaps if he could open a space for Bakhshi's happiness, he was doing the same for himself. For a fleeting second, protagonist and antagonist were linked in their humanity, in something as simple as their love for their women. And the thought entered Harry's head again, _how different are we, when all is said and done? Not very._

Yes, he would call her. He had only talked with her for a short time yesterday. Actually, he thought, looking at the soft blue glow of the digital clock in the Lexus, now it was the day before yesterday, but it felt even longer than that. He pressed the button, and on the second ring, he heard just a sweet sigh as she answered, "Mmmmmm, Harry. Oh, good. I've missed you."

"I'll assume I woke you, my love, and I'll apologise now, although I'm not at all sorry to hear your voice. I've missed you, too."

He could hear her roll over and take a deep breath, as if she were sitting up. "What time is it? Oh, late. Are you just leaving the BBC?"

Harry chuckled softly. "Now how on Earth would you know that?"

"Oh, come on, Harry. This one doesn't even require an analyst. It was all over the news. Bakhshi, Hogan and the Foreign Secretary, a man with a gun threatening them on British soil, on live television. Let's see how I do, shall we? Probably Adam in the audience, maybe Ros as well. Malcolm cut the feed. And please tell him it was at a very good moment, although I'm sure the BBC was less than thrilled with that intervention. And the reason you're so late is that you had to bring an entire audience of civilians into the Services with the Official Secrets Act, because they all saw what we in the real world missed out on. How did I do?"

Harry laughed out loud, shaking his head as he drove. "I will never be able to keep a secret from you once we're under the same roof, will I? I'm completely done for."

"I'll take that as a confirmation that I was fairly close in my assessment." He could hear that she was proud of herself. "Just logic. Pure and simple."

Harry took a deep breath. He realised there was something he had thought every day, but he hadn't told her yet. "I need to say something, Ruth." He paused, and then continued. "Of course I miss seeing you, and I want you back in England, but I want you also to know that I very much miss my analyst, my officer. Connie does her best, but the Grid misses you, and your Section Head feels acutely the space you've left. You have one of the finest Intelligence minds I've ever encountered."

Ruth was taken aback, and she sat in silence for a moment, before she was surprised by her eyes welling up with tears. She heard the honesty in his voice, and she separated, as Harry did, his deep love for her and his value of her professional abilities. When she spoke, her voice was soft, full of feeling. "That feels very good to hear, Harry. I spent my day stacking books, and the most analysis I did was agonising over whether to categorise Rodin with the Impressionists."

It was late, she was tired, and suddenly the tears came. She let them fall to the pillow, silently. "I miss it so much, Harry. I never want you to feel my unhappiness, because there's no way to solve it and I know you'll want to try, but I watch the news and I'm so bloody _jealous_ of everyone there." She broke away from the phone, and after a pause, said, "Sorry ... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that. Caught me at a weak moment, I suppose."

Harry sighed. "Don't be sorry. I can only imagine how I would feel. How I _did_ feel, sitting in that cell after I cut Mace. Powerless, unable to affect any outcome at all, waiting, for something, anything to happen. I know, Ruth. You're in a cell of sorts, too."

"Yes. That's what it's like. Powerless." Ruth took a deep breath. "I know I could help you, Harry. That's part of it as well. Not knowing, and knowing that I could help. I'm so bloody good at my job, and I love it. I watched the news, and I wanted to be there."

Harry's voice was soft, low, and so tired. "I want to be _there_."

Ruth spoke before thinking. "Then come here."

Harry smiled into the darkness around him. "It's 12:45, Ruth. No trains to Paris until 7:30."

"Drive to Dover. It's, what, an hour and a half from London? The car ferries run all night to Calais. I'll meet you there."

Silence. "You're serious."

"Utterly. We'll book a room. You'll be in my arms by four-thirty."

Harry inhaled, and then let it go. "Ruth ... I ... " He had worked straight through for nearly three days and it was Saturday, after all. He was exactly straddling the fence. It would take only a slight breath of wind to send him in either direction.

Her voice was low, seductive. "Where's your spirit of romance, Sir Harry?"

That was the slight breath he was looking for. "How will you get to Calais?"

"Don't you worry about that. Shall I choose a hotel?"

"Yes, do." He laughed suddenly. "When in God's name did we entirely lose our senses?"

"When we fell in love, Harry. And I, for one, hope I never find it again." He could hear her moving about. "Now let me get dressed. Oh, God, I can't wait to see you."

* * *

Ruth was wrong. It wasn't until 4:53 that Harry was in her arms, but that was only because they both insisted on a hot shower before climbing into the cool sheets. They lay together, breathing each other in, revelling in the feel of each other's body, the half-moon outside casting just the barest of shadows as it made way for the rise of the sun.

Harry could feel himself stir, but wanted just to hold her for a time, so he pushed his need away. He knew he was exhausted enough to win the battle if he wished, to simply fall asleep holding her. She gave him a peace he could find nowhere else, and he fell into it, luxuriously. It was like the resolution of a chord at the end of a long symphony, and he let it wash over him as he trailed his fingers aimlessly across the soft skin of her back.

His lips were at her ear, and he whispered, "I love you."

She moved just slightly, pressing against him, and put her lips at his neck. "And I love you."

He felt the warmth of her breath and the length of her body on his, and he wondered how he ever thought he would resist making love with her. He moved his lips down to hers and kissed her, deeply, hungrily, and the battle was over.

* * *

Hours later, they sat on the balcony, sipping coffee, looking out over the Channel. Their chairs were as close as they could be, their arms linked, forming a continuous line of white terrycloth. Ruth looked down and smiled. "Whatever would we do if someone hadn't thought to put these robes in the rooms?" She looked up at Harry, his face relaxed, soft. "I'll never be able to see you out of one, you know? Back on the Grid, I'll look at you and see this, you padding from room to room in your bare feet..." She trailed a finger down his neck to the V at his chest, " ... open here ... "

He smiled at her. "You keep that up, you _will_ see me out of it."

She put her head on his shoulder. "You can't threaten me, I know how sleep-deprived you are."

He reached his fingers between the folds of her robe and rested his hand gently on her breast. "Try me."

She snuggled in closer to him. "Ummmmm, you win. You called my bluff. Then I'm the one who's sleep-deprived. But you can stay there, if you like."

Harry took her advice, and kept his hand warm inside her robe. "So how did you get here this morning, my Ruth? No trains running at midnight for you either. Please don't tell me you hitchhiked?"

Ruth smiled, "No, I borrowed Isabelle's car and drove myself."

"That was very enterprising of you. And very trusting of Isabelle."

"She and I had a date last night. Dinner, romantic girls' movie, and then dessert. She foolishly offered to do anything for us. I said goodnight to her and then woke her a few hours later, asking for her car to drive to Calais. Lucky I wasn't thrown out on my ear, but she just smiled and handed me the keys. Cute thing, too, Renault, Twingo, I think, and Harry ..." Ruth raised her eyebrows, "It's blue. I believe they call it ... "

He put a finger to her lips, smiling. "Oh, no, my Ruth. I gave you the ammunition as a birthday present, and now you propose to lob it at me? Unfair. Tell me more about your date."

"She called you her angel of mercy, Harry. She said you gave her many happy years with her husband."

Harry looked down. "That might be stretching it a bit, but she's a good woman, Ruth."

Ruth sat up and looked at him. She took his face in her hands and defiantly complimented him. "She also called you a very good man."

Harry knew she was baiting him now, but he was at a loss about how to stop her. He could feel the heat starting into his cheeks, and on an impulse, simply picked up their breakfast from the table and looked at her. "Muffin?" He knew it was a ridiculous change of subject, but it achieved his aim. Ruth let go of his face and laughed, saying, "You're entirely hopeless, Harry."

"What?" Now he was laughing too. "It's a lovely gift, on par, I think, with Bavarian chocolates." He put his arms around her, holding her tightly so she couldn't move, "The basket of muffins, always appropriate, always welcomed." He leant down and kissed her, and she stopped her struggling, but she murmured against his lips, "If it takes me forever, Harry, I will teach you simply to say 'Thank you' when someone tells you something nice about yourself. My mission in life."

He kissed her again, long and deeply, after which she sighed, and said, "You're extremely good at that."

Harry ran a finger across her lips, and said softly, "Thank you." Then he smiled at her. "Mission accomplished."

Ruth grimaced, and said, "We'll see. I'll have to keep testing you." She looked over at the table, and then turned to him, smiling. "Do I get to keep the muffins?"

He picked up the basket and placed it in her lap, and then looked out at the Channel again, smirking. Ruth laughed softly, and put her hand up, cupping his cheek, "I miss you."

He looked over at her, smiling sadly. "I miss you, too."

As she turned back to look out at the sea, Ruth was suddenly reminded of the visitors to the bookshop. For a moment, she thought about telling Harry, but then thought better of it. She was nearly certain it was the woman from the jewellery store, and she truly wanted the ring to be a surprise. But what really stopped her was the thought that he would worry. She glanced back at him. He looked relaxed, happy. They had so little time together. She told herself to let him be.

Ruth picked away at one of the muffins in her lap, and then placed the basket back up on the table. They sat for a while gazing at the water, the soft waves lapping against the sandy beach. She sighed, and murmured, "So close, and yet so far. I could start swimming and the next land I'd touch would be England." Her voice was sad, wistful, and Harry moved to hold her even closer.

He didn't know what to say. What he knew was that she loved Britain as much as he did, and he thought he knew the pain he would be feeling in exile. Harry loved her so completely that he wanted to give her everything she desired, but England seemed out of his reach for now.

Then, as he held his eyes on the horizon and the far edge of the water that held England just fifty kilometres away, he wondered if he couldn't give them both a gift after all. It wouldn't be forever, just one night, perhaps two. If she only stayed at his house, and he had her escorted ... to have her back in his bed, back in England, for just two nights. To wake with her, fall asleep with her, there in England. She could see her girls, put her feet on British soil, breathe in British air.

"Ruth."

"Yes, Harry."

"What would you think ... " He turned slightly to her, looking directly into her eyes. "If I told you I could arrange to have you come home, for a couple of nights?" His mind was racing now, his thoughts starting to come together into a plan.

She sat upright, her eyes wide. "Do you mean it? Is it possible?"

He poured out another cup of coffee for both of them. "Well, I was just on the Dover Ferry, and they were beyond relaxed about checking papers. I have a man in the Border Agency in Dover, an old friend. I could have Tom drive over, you could take the Saturday evening train from Paris to here, and you both could come across in the small hours of the morning on Sunday, when people are least on their guard." He smiled sideways at her. "That is, if you wouldn't mind being married to Tom for a night or two?"

Ruth was so excited that she laughed, "God, no."

Harry gave her a look under his brow, "Don't get used to it, my Sophie. He's taken."

She held up her hand and wiggled her fingers at him, "So am I." She threw her arms around him, nearly upsetting his coffee cup. "Oh, Harry, really? Is it safe?"

Harry kissed her on the neck. "I won't let it happen if it's not. But you'd be under the radar. Mrs Matthew Archer or some such. Get yourself a good wig, a scarf, keep your eyes demurely down. We're spies, Ruth, we really should know how to do this sort of thing."

"When?" The green in Ruth's eyes sparkled. Harry thought she looked like nothing so much as a child on Christmas morning.

"Don't know why it shouldn't be soon. I just have to arrange with Tom, and call my friend ... next week-end? "

Ruth inhaled deeply, "Oh, Harry. England."

He smiled at her, "I'll try not to take it personally that you've yet to mention me, or my bed, or my house. Our house."

She moved closer to him. "Of course there's that." Gently, she pressed her lips against his, a tender kiss, full of love. "Thank you, Harry."

"It's for both of us, my Ruth. Let's hold good thoughts for this being a relatively quiet week in espionage, shall we?"

Harry would think on that statement later. If only he'd known what this week would bring.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE**

* * *

Harry drove back on to the deck of the Dover Ferry at 3:20 that afternoon, with another two-and-a-half hours of sleep and the memory of Ruth's lips warm on his. He'd gotten an update from Adam, and the Grid had been quiet today. Bakhshi was going to make a full recovery from his gunshot wound, Anna was safely in Vancouver, and only a few of their newly-acquired employees from the television audience had called with questions about the scope of their positions in the Security Services.

It was Saturday, and Harry told Adam he would go straight to the Grid to get some work done. Harry thought Adam sounded good, relaxed, and when he mentioned Ros' name, Harry felt he heard something in his officer's voice that was playful, happy. Perhaps the on-again-off-again was now on again. For Harry, having those two in a good relationship meant not one, but two contented officers, and as he remembered his joy at being with Ruth, he knew that being replaceable by Adam and Ros on the Grid for a time could only be good for his own future.

As Ruth made her way down A16 into Amiens, she called Isabelle and thanked her for the use of her car. In fact, this had worked out so well, she was considering the idea of finding her own, a used car, perhaps a Smart car, something small, easy to park, inexpensive. Isabelle was at the shop today, and Ruth said she would meet her there, with a tank full of petrol. She'd also gotten a small gift in Calais, a delicate lace scarf from Royal Dentelle, just to say thank you.

Ruth enjoyed the drive back, and rather than being tired, she felt energised. She realised that although she still missed her old life, she was feeling more comfortable in her new one, that she had eased into it somewhat. And she knew that it stemmed, in part, from Harry's continued presence here, in France, connected to her. Of course Calais and the drive down to Paris reminded her of the day, nearly three months ago, that she had been driven, for the first time, to her flat on Rue du Banquier.

On that day, Zaf was still alive. In fact, she had just eaten the sandwich he'd made for her, his voice still in her ears from their conversation on the dock. She had been leaving everything she knew and loved, her country, her job, her house, her life. She had just said goodbye to Harry, and now, as the road flew by, Ruth could clarify in her mind what had so worried her on that day. That he would forget her. Ruth looked at her ring and then back to the road. He hadn't forgotten, and now she knew he wouldn't. She trusted him with every part of her, down to her very soul.

Harry arrived on the Grid at about 5:30, given the hour's difference between London and Calais. He shuffled through the messages and memos that had been printed out and placed on his desk, and read through Connie's report of the day. Next, he wrote his own account of last night's events, and sent it off to the DG for the files. Then on to the news from Intelligence sources.

"_In 48 hours, the U.S. will launch air strikes against strategic targets inside Iran. When Iran responds, which it most certainly will, there is likely to be another war in the Middle East. At this point, there is nothing the UK can do to prevent these strikes, so our only duty will be to prevent repercussions on British soil. The Yalta Group must become the Security Service's highest priority."_

In order to balance out the bad news, Harry called Tom and asked him to hold next Saturday night and Sunday morning free. Tom loved the plan, and said he would deliver Ruth safely to Harry's doorstep on Sunday, and then back to Calais on Tuesday morning, early.

They would have two nights together, in his home. In their home. For a moment, Harry tried to imagine again how they could get married in those two days, but then he let it go. Bill Crombie stood at his shoulder saying, "Don't push the river, Harry. Let it flow." Cyprus, white linen and flowers. That felt right, and Harry again released the urgency that crept in.

Harry drove out of the car park at Thames House to make his way home at 9:15, and was in slippers and dressing robe at 10:30, scotch in hand, as he dialled Ruth's number. She was still awake, but in bed, and close to drifting off. Her voice had the quality he loved, peaceful, with the vulnerability that comes from abandoning yourself into dreams. "Calais was wonderful, Harry. A lovely reason to lose sleep."

"Yes, it was. And I was thinking on the ferry, how many new memories I have of different places with you. It's not the traditional Grand Tour, Ruth, but just think, Bath, Paris, Cyprus, Baghdad, and now Calais. Makes me wonder where we'll find ourselves next."

"England, your house. Our house. That's where, Harry." He could hear her stretch. "Oh, England and you. Every time I think about it, I feel I'm dreaming."

"Not dreaming, my love. It's all arranged. I spoke to Tom and to my friend at the border. And Malcolm. Look for papers to come for Elizabeth Archer, couriered to the shop. You'll take the late Saturday evening train up to Calais, and Tom will meet you. It'll be two nights. Two. I feel rich beyond compare knowing that."

"We are rich." He could hear her beginning to fade a bit. "We certainly don't take each other for granted, do we?" Ruth pulled the covers around her, the phone between her head and the pillow.

Harry took the last sip of his scotch, and removed Fidget from his lap. He stood up, on his way upstairs. "No, we don't. And Calais was just what I needed. Another ten hours stolen. Only ten hours together, and it made me into a new man."

"Not too new, I hope. I was rather fond of the old one." She spoke slowly, her voice drifting off at the end.

Harry paused at the top of the stairs, and remembered the last time Ruth had been here, looking so beautiful in his wrinkled shirt. Her hair dishevelled, her legs bare, leaning over the railing and saying goodbye. At the time it had felt as if they would have so many more of those mornings, that it was the beginning of a fresh life for him. It came back to him now, the feeling he'd had then, of wanting to freeze the moment in time. She had said, "See you later," but everything had changed after that. She'd gone to the tube station, and nothing was ever the same again.

He held on to the railing, and the weariness of the last two sleepless nights enveloped him. Walking to his bedroom, he heard her faint breath in his ear, and wondered if she had actually fallen asleep. He didn't speak, just listened, until he had gotten into bed himself, and lay in the dark of the half-moon. "Ruth?" he asked softly, and he heard her stir. "I love you."

He knew it was because he was tired, but he felt his chest contract with the emotion that welled up, and he wasn't surprised that his eyes began to fill. Harry was giving himself an uncharacteristic moment of self-pity, an indulgence that he rarely allowed. He wondered how he could go one more minute without her, and then he reminded himself of how. Put one foot in front of the other and keep working toward getting her home.

"I love you, too, Harry." Her voice was soft, faltering in the warmth of sleep. "I think I'd better sleep now, if that's all right."

"You sleep, my love. Sleep, my Ruth. I'll talk to you tomorrow. I love you." Harry heard the phone click off but he kept it there for just a moment longer before closing it and laying back, his eyes on the shadowed contours of the ceiling. And there in the dark, with no one to see, and no weakness to convey to anyone but Scarlet, Phoebe and Fidget, Harry blinked, and one tear slipped down his cheek. It fell and spread its heat into Ruth's pillow.

* * *

And the next day, Harry watched Ros die.

"Ros, look at me."

"Harry!"

"Look at me! Ros! You are an outstanding officer. You are _my_ outstanding officer. Don't be afraid. _Do not be afraid!_"

He knew he was saying it because it was what he would want to hear, but of course she was afraid. And Harry was in the iron grip of helplessness. Utter and complete helplessness. He begged Juliet, put every ounce of strength he had toward getting her to stop, but the handcuffs at his wrists held him fast to the chair, and in the end, yet another officer had died in front of him.

Ros had come back for him. He'd thought she was a traitor, and her betrayal had cut right to the heart of him. He'd been unyieldingly hard on her all day, had allowed his anger and frustration to pour out, had directed it toward her, his hatred smouldering from him just inches from her face. And even as her eyes had shown him the depth of hurt she was feeling, Ros had stood tall, strong, unbending. His outstanding officer. And in the end, she had come back. For him. To save him.

How many times had Harry watched, or listened to, one of his people die? Each time he would have changed places with them, and this time was no different. He always wanted to turn away, to save himself from the visions that he knew would hover behind his eyes forever, but he didn't. If she had the courage to die, he could have the courage to watch. To give her the respect of his eyes, the connection in her last moments of another human being. The gift of recognition.

So he watched as Juliet plunged the needle into Ros' neck. "Harry!" Ros cried out, knowing this was finally the end, that no matter how many times she had cheated death, this was the one that would take her. He watched, unflinchingly, never taking his eyes off of her. Watched, as she struggled for breath, her body tensed, still fighting it, and then the realisation and the letting go as she slumped over, unmoving at last.

Harry watched. His eyes filling, his heart shattered, feeling helpless, weak, inadequate, ineffectual, unable again to change events. And then he'd cried, from a place so deep inside of him he didn't even have a map for it, but he never took his eyes off of Ros, now still, the agony past. He looked at the air above her body, and wondered where the complicated, talented, infuriating, resourceful, unique person that she was had gone. Disappeared, floating free, untethered, he suspected, and for a moment, he wished himself there too, free of his own agony.

He thought he might just will himself to die, to let go of life and take the journey with her. He felt so tired, really, and as Ros had, he ceased his own struggle against the handcuffs and the chair that held him. Harry wondered why he did this, why he wasn't just one more man sitting down to supper right now, with a wife, and children, and the blissful ignorance of not knowing the dangers that surround him. Perhaps someone else _could_ do better. Perhaps someone else could have saved Ros.

But still he kept his eyes on her. Juliet and Sholto and Magritte calmly picked up their things and moved past him, dealing the final blow. They let him live with the memory of his own powerlessness, facing Ros' body inert in the chair across from him. All he had to give her now were his eyes, so he sat, unblinking.

And Harry wondered not so much about why he couldn't save her, as about why he ever thought he could. If he felt regret, then he must have thought he had the power to change her destiny, to pull Ros from what now seemed an inevitable conclusion, to change history. He was only a man, with more failings and limitations than he ever showed the world, more than he even dared show himself. How do you save someone from falling when you're searching for handholds for yourself?

In the long minutes before anyone else entered the room, Harry asked for peace, for absolution. She was so alone, growing cold and still colder just metres from him. Now all he wanted was to reach out and hold her, but it wouldn't be for her, as she was no longer there. It would be for him, to say he was sorry, to let her know that he knew now that she hadn't meant to betray him, she had only done as Harry had every day for so long. Ros had tried to make a difference, in whatever way she could.

And then, they had come to save him. Too late. Too late for Ros, and in a way, too late for him, too. In the silence just before they came through the door, Harry looked for forgiveness in the face he knew would always give it.

He thought of Ruth, finally allowing his eyes to close. The surreal vision of Ros and this cold place gave way to the balcony in Calais. The purity of white robes, the burgeoning life of Spring around them, and the timelessness of the sea. He saw the freshness of Ruth's smiling face, and the clarity of the deep love she felt, written there in her eyes.

He imagined himself, _willed_ himself there, and as she enclosed him in her arms, she whispered, "It's not your fault, Harry." He sighed into the vision, not fully believing it, but gratefully taking the sliver of peace it offered.

* * *

Ruth didn't get a call that night, although she didn't realise it until she awakened the next morning. Her absence from the shop the day before had left her with a backlog of books to search out, and finding a specific edition of _Walden_ had been particularly sticky. So the day had flown, and she'd gone home late, still feeling a lack of sleep. She'd laid down after a hot bath and put the mobile next to her ear. Next thing she'd known, there was bright sunshine streaming across her bed, and there were no missed calls.

Always Ruth's first reaction was the same. _Is he all right?_ It gave her morning a sense of hurry, and she found herself thinking about time. She composed the letter in her head as she stopped at the Patisserie, rode on the Metro, and began her walk. When she got to the shop, she wrote right away. In the absence of his voice, she would reach out to him, and she hoped it wouldn't be long before he reached back to her.

* * *

Harry stood at the cemetery and watched as Adam dropped the petals on the casket. The one that was supposed to contain the body of Rosalind Myers, but instead contained carryalls that held something akin to her slight weight. In the early hours of the morning, Adam had told him he'd switched the syringes, and now they, Malcolm, and of course, a slightly groggy but very alive Ros, were the only ones who knew.

The funeral had necessarily been a bit of a rushed affair, bound as they were by the 48-hour effects of the near-coma-inducing drug that was in the syringe that Juliet stabbed so coldly into Ros' neck. Since they had removed her body from the chair at the Estate, Ros had slept peacefully, her pulse and breathing all but undetectable, under the constant care and supervision of Malcolm's friend at the Morgue.

She had a euphoric visitor in Harry, and as he smoothed the hair from her forehead, he thought it might be the best and most thorough sleep she'd had for months. His tenderness, looking at her now, came from the awe he felt at seeing someone, finally, snatched from death. The irrational hope he'd had, watching her die, that she could survive, had come true. Harry thanked every known and unknown deity for that reality. It filled his heart, and when his heart was full, Ruth wasn't far from his thoughts.

When something hopeless comes true, Harry thought, doesn't it, by extrapolation, make everything possible? In the early morning hours, as he and Adam made the unique arrangements for Ros' funeral and Malcolm created the papers she would need to disappear, Harry had thought again of calling Ruth, but decided against it. He thought he would let her sleep, but he loved her so completely as he worked through the night, it was as if she sat next to him. In Ros' resurrection he found a sense of hope, a feeling of certainty about their lives together.

Then after the funeral, he stepped back on the Grid, knowing that Ros was safely on her way. Now Ruth would be at work, and he would call her, but he decided to check for a letter first, feeling there might be one after his silence last night. There was. He opened it and read, and as always, they were of a mind.

_My dearest Will,_

_I sit with my coffee and, yes, a muffin, and I feel close to you. A balcony comes to mind, not to mention another set of clean, white sheets and yet another locked door. We should edit our own travel guide, don't you think? Hotel to hotel to hotel. The respite of home and the warmth of familiarity becomes the rarity, and the more precious for that. It is one of the many reasons I so look forward to this coming Sunday._

_Do you know what day that will be? Bear with me, as actually, there are several numbers I track. One-hundred-and-one days from my fuzzy-slippered splendour, shivering on your doorstep. Ninety-six from the treasured alcove and the swans. Ninety-three since you set me right about what I heard in the hospital corridor by using the economy of three simple, splendid words. And of course, eighty-nine days since you showed me that your eyes were bad, your modesty nonexistent, and your bathtub skills beyond compare._

_I could go on, but I'm certain you get the substance. And I'm sure you're saying to yourself, this woman who dislikes mathematicians seems to like numbers quite a lot. Only these numbers, my dearest love, only these._

_I find I am of a philosophical bent this morning and must ask you to indulge my search for symbolism. Your comment about stealing hours struck me because I feel the same so often. But what, or whom, are we stealing hours from? Who is the enemy, the force that keeps us apart? _

_Sometimes it feels so large that I cannot even fathom it: the system, the state, the machine, and a favourite film of yours comes to mind, Chaplin caught up in the gears of the assembly line in _Modern Times_. Or perhaps it's something more ephemeral, like fate, or destiny, but no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to believe fate is working against us, because I feel in my heart that our destiny is to be together, in time. You see, my love? In time. Always it seems that the enemy is time._

_When I begin to feel sorry for myself, thinking that this is a very unconventional relationship, I take comfort in the numbers I listed above. They show me that we're in the middle of quite a conventional progression indeed. We met, we liked and respected each other, we became friends, and we began to feel something. That something became love unspoken, then love spoken, then love realised, and now love committed to each other. We move toward forever, a life together. Somewhere, in time._

_It soothes me to know there is nothing overly unusual or dramatic about all that. We have an assortment of obstacles, to be sure, but what couple doesn't, really? The point is (ah, there's a point, is there, Sophie? I can hear, you, you know), I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time._

_So I console myself by looking forward, seeing the days stretched out in front of us, one hundred, two hundred, a thousand and more, and as I've said before, I will never love you less than I do today. _

_There is one additional number that has my attention this morning. Sunday will mark eighty-seven days since I stood in your bedroom and complimented your interior designer. So today my favourite number of them all is eighty-seven._

_Your Master Mathematician,_

_Sophie_

For just a moment, Harry sat with his head in his hands, overcome. On how little sleep is a man meant to function, after all? He knew when he was tired his emotions were more accessible, harder to keep down, but this was a combination designed to make him completely lose his reason. Ros still unimaginably alive, his beloved Ruth speaking of forever, blended with his uncharacteristically hopeful and sunny outlook this morning. He almost thought it would be a day to simply walk off the Grid, make a stop in Paris, and head to that beach. A moment more, and he might have, but he glanced up and through the glass he saw what looked to be a Special Branch officer peering in at him.

He'd been so focused on his letter, he hadn't seen him come onto the Grid. He couldn't say he was surprised. Ros had left them open to this, and in truth, he'd almost expected it. He walked out of his door and stepped up to the man, who was beginning to direct more and more people coming through the pods. Harry narrowed his eyes at him. "Harry Pearce. Section Head. Would you mind telling me what's going on here?"

The man turned to Harry, and he had the good grace to at least look slightly apologetic. "Section D has been suspended pending full investigation of the Ros Myers affair."

Harry watched as the Grid descended into utter chaos, with people filling boxes, emptying file drawers, shuffling through cabinets, copying hard drives. The few times Harry had witnessed this phenomenon, it always hit him with a blow to the gut. This is a "secret" Service, he liked to say. Harry knew it would be pointless to protest, so he stood, outwardly calm, but livid inside. The Grid was being violated.

"Thank you." Harry knew he had only a few minutes before they began going through his office. He walked without hurry, closed his door and locked it. Reaching into his top drawer, he pulled out a memory stick and downloaded Ruth's letters to him and his letters to her. _Damn Malcolm for always being right._ Tonight he would do what he should have done in the first place. He would read them into Malcolm's recorder as an addition to his diary, and then he would destroy them.

Harry watched the blue bar as it made its way across his screen, and whilst he waited, he reached into his top right drawer to retrieve the chocolate buttons. _Bloody Special Branch will see these over my dead body. If anyone deserves a reward, it's me._ When the blue bar reached its destination, Harry deleted the emails and stood, putting the memory stick in his pocket. There was a rattle at his door and the handle jerked just before he opened it.

The man looked a bit menacing. Harry looked at him and said, casually, "Sorry. Door sticks." He walked past him, smiling, and popped a chocolate button in his mouth.

Harry moved about the Grid and with his eyes, he collected Adam, Connie, Malcolm, and Jo, indicating that they should go outside with him.

Standing in front of Thames House, Harry made a short speech. "Putting aside for a moment the fervour of those currently rifling through our personal effects, please know that this suspension has no reflection on you or your service to this country."

Jo and Adam went their separate ways, and the three with the longest experience in the Security Services stood looking around them. The general feeling seemed to be, _Ah, well, isn't the first time, won't be the last._

Connie was the first to voice what they were all thinking. "A drink, I think."

Grateful he hadn't had to be the one to suggest it, Harry said, "Under the circumstances, an excellent idea."

Malcolm piped in, "Cricketer's?"

Harry followed them, but just short of the pub, he touched Malcolm's elbow. "I need to make a quick call, Malcolm." Harry pressed a number on his mobile.

Smiling, Malcolm said softly, "Tell her hello for me, will you? Tell her … "

Harry smiled back at him, and handed him the phone. "Tell her yourself."

Malcolm looked as if Harry were handing him a snake, but he took it and put it to his ear, "Hello?"

Ruth heard Malcolm's voice, and her heart nearly stopped. "Malcolm? Is Harry all right? He's not hurt?"

"No, no, Ru … erm … no, he's right here. All in one piece. He's well." He smirked at Harry, "Or at least as well as you could expect." Malcolm smiled and let out a short laugh, "God, it's good to hear your voice. We've missed you."

"Oh, Malcolm, I feel the same. You sound good, too. They're treating you well on the Grid?"

Malcolm huffed, "Overworked and underappreciated, as usual. Status quo. Except now you're gone, I have to do everything." He practically whispered, "We're working on getting you home ... Sophie." He gave a small chuckle, "Can't quite get used to _that_."

Ruth laughed too, "I hope you won't have to much longer. It's so good to talk to you, Malcolm."

"Yes, and you. I'll hand you over to Harry now. 'Bye ... erm ... " He couldn't bring himself to say 'Sophie' again, so he simply shrugged and gave Harry the phone. Malcolm smiled as he backed away, and then went through the pub door.

There was no one nearby, but Harry spoke softly, "Ruth?"

He could hear her sigh loudly, "Harry. I was getting a little worried. You're okay?"

"Yes. I'm very well. Quite an extraordinary few days, but I'll tell you all about it when you come. We'll have lots of time to talk, my Ruth."

"Did you get my letter?"

"Yes. I just read it minutes ago. I can't talk long, but I'll call you tonight. There was just one thing I wanted to say to you. Well, two, actually."

"The first?"

"I love you."

"Oh, Harry, you're very sentimental , you know. I love you, too, very much. And the second thing?"

"Eighty-seven is my favourite number as well."


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR**

* * *

A few moments later, Harry joined Malcolm and Connie in the Chapter Room. As they walked down the corridor toward the bar, Malcolm had a bit of a delayed reaction about Special Branch invading the Grid. "They made me give up my passcodes. I'm really cheesed off. You know, my aunt used to say, 'Love your enemies, in case your friends turn out to be bastards.'"

Harry had long ago given up expecting the Services to be entirely fair. "If you want loyalty, Malcolm, buy a dog." Connie made her way to the Ladies, and Harry called back, "Connie, gin and tonic?"

"Large."

"Naturally." Harry and Malcolm went to find a table. If Harry hadn't been so preoccupied, he might have seen a man sitting alone, reading the _Times_. And if he'd seen his face, he would have known him. Davey King, an ex-IRA killer with a personal grudge against Harry. Davey liked to kill multiple targets using a single explosive device, and his preferred method was to force them to go to where he'd placed the bomb, and then detonate it. If they didn't arrive as he requested, he'd kill innocent people until they did.

Connie came back to the table, her face drawn and pale. Harry asked, "Connie, what happened?"

After a very frightening encounter with Davey in the corridor, Connie was charged to give a message to Harry. "Davey King. Just said to tell you he's back for you. For all of us." Harry knew what that meant. He'd gotten a Christmas card every year from Davey, addressed to Thames House, signed with a smiley face and _Season's Greetings, Harry_. It had always been a threat, and it seemed now that Davey was ready to make good on it. Connie, still shaken, left Harry and Malcolm to go it alone.

Harry's only option was to find a place, apart from the Grid, where his team could regroup and form a plan. And the only place that fit that description was his own safe house, where he and Ruth had spent their last night in England together. So again, as he called Adam, he used the words "Sunstrike Protocol," but this time for a very different reason. "There's a place you know. It belongs to me. Be there as soon as you can."

Harry and Malcolm arrived at the safe house first, and as they walked through the door, Malcolm set about making an inventory of the equipment they could use. Harry, in turn, set about wandering, trying to stay focused. He knew he had to develop a plan, but first, he had to process some of the memories that overtook him.

He couldn't keep his eyes from drifting to the bed, just to the right of the door in the main room. The sheets that Ruth had draped over the shelves were still piled in a heap there, and the candles she had set out were reduced to stubs, drip castle sculptures lined up on the sill right where he had left them.

He had tidied a bit when he came in and found the mouldy Chinese food, but it still looked to him like the room in which they had made love and talked the night through. Where they had cried together, made promises to each other, where he had watched the candlelight play across her bare skin. Harry breathed deeply into the feelings that suddenly rushed into the room. _How far we've come since that night. _Although he never could have imagined it, he loved her even more today than he had then.

Harry glanced at Malcolm to see if any of this was obvious, but it was clear it wasn't. Malcolm was rummaging around on the shelves, muttering to himself. For a moment, Harry needed to collect his emotions, and try again to blend his two selves. The memory of the Harry that was vulnerable, intimately entwined with his Ruth, lay on the bed to his right. Malcolm, now at what had been their dinner table, required the mind of Harry Pearce, head of MI5, the man who would help to get them out of a very dangerous situation. The two diametrically different scenes intruded on each other, with Harry standing, surreally, directly in the middle.

He chose the only side he could, the one that needed him right now. Although he would have preferred to sit on the bed and allow the warm memories of that night to drift through his thoughts, he walked over to Malcolm, who was just finishing his inventory," ... half a pack of mummified cigarettes, oh, a cassette tape of Led Zeppelin's untitled fourth album." He held up the tape.

Harry took it from him. "Been looking for that."

One by one, the team collected at the safe house, until the entire group was together: Harry, Adam, Connie, Malcolm, Jo and Ben. Now they knew where and when. Gabriel Plaza. There was a car bomb planted in a taxi, due to detonate at six o'clock. Davey would send them after the bomb and try to kill them with it. Harry had very painful memories that reminded him Davey wasn't bluffing.

They had no choice but to go where he wanted them, and to stand near the car with the bomb in it -- to be "rounded up like livestock," as Connie so quaintly put it. They had a plan, but it was very dangerous, and especially so for Harry. There were a number of ways that things could go wrong, more than he would care to admit. At about five o'clock, Harry said, "I suggest we make our peace with our various gods, and go."

They all sat in silence for a moment, and Harry closed his eyes. He had faced death many times, but this was different. Harry wasn't alone in his life anymore. He didn't need to make peace with a god, he needed to make peace with Ruth, with the promise he had made to her. Her face came into view. "Don't get shot." He had smiled at her on the dock that morning, and said glibly, "I won't." But today, despite what he had told her, he was planning to do just that.

He would lay himself out as bait, knowing that Davey wouldn't be able to resist a clear shot. Harry would wear a vest that would protect his heart, which is where Harry believed Davey would shoot, if he hadn't changed his habits. Davey had always said that a shot to the heart was the one Harry deserved, as he had broken Davey's by killing his beloved father.

But Harry wasn't foolish enough to think Davey would do what he'd said he'd do. A shot to the head would be certain, and Harry would have no protection there. The blessing was, he supposed, if he was wrong, it would be quick. The reasoning behind the plan was that as soon as the bullet left the gun, they would see where Davey was hiding. It seemed fitting that in shooting Harry, Davey would tip his hand, and that would save the rest of the team.

They travelled in silence to Gabriel Plaza, split between Adam's and Harry's cars. Everyone had a task. Everyone, that is, but Harry, whose task would come later. He sent them on and stood alone in the car park, feeling torn. But finally, he knew he had to call Ruth. To give her his voice, his love, some kind of peace should it come to the worst. It was 5:35 p.m., and the bomb was set to detonate in twenty-five minutes. What does a man do if he has twenty-five minutes to live? He calls the woman he loves.

Harry didn't have experience with the premeditated "I'm walking into danger" call, and he wasn't quite sure what he would say to her. But he was learning to trust the way the sound of her voice prompted him to open his heart and speak from there. For just a moment he remembered the accounts he'd heard of the last mobile calls before the Twin Towers fell in New York. Husbands, wives, lovers, mothers, fathers, children, faced with just minutes in which to say a lifetime's worth of the unsaid.

Harry was immeasurably grateful for the hours he'd spent in talks with Ruth, whispered in the dark after making love, shared in the car on long drives, spoken with hands touching in restaurants. He'd already said so much to her. Everything, really. Now was simply an opportunity to say it again, perhaps for the last time. And beyond the peace he wanted to give her, Harry knew that when the moment came to step out from behind the car, to offer himself up to Davey, he had to do it without hesitation, without regret. No "if onlys." _If only I had called her. If only I had said 'I love you' one more time. If only she had known_.

Harry took a deep breath and pressed the button on his mobile. As he listened to it ring, he leant on the concrete wall of the car park, looking down at the black cab. What he saw beyond the cab containing the bomb were probably a hundred or more people jamming the Plaza, calmly having a bite to eat, chatting away, their children playing. The innocents.

The phone rang once more, and then she picked up. Ruth was breathless, filled with joy. "Harry, what a lovely surprise! Two calls in a day?"

"I wanted to hear your voice." He tried to keep his tone even, but in the process, produced a flat sound, a monotone.

She heard it right away, and her lightness vanished. "Harry. What's wrong?"

He took a deep breath. The inspiration of what to say had yet to hit him. "I ... I'm about to do something, Ruth."

She felt a knot begin in her throat. Her voice was wary, but calm. "What are you going to do, Harry?"

He gazed at the people below. "What I have to do. What needs to be done. But it's dangerous, and I wanted to say some things to you."

Ruth knew what this meant. Her first thought was to say, _You're scaring me, Harry_, but that was pointless, wasn't it? She knew his job and what it entailed, and she knew the luxury of the time he was giving her was no small thing. Harry was better at what he did than anyone, and if he was stepping into danger, it was because he had to, because there was no other choice. And Ruth knew instinctively why he was calling her. To say goodbye should things not work out as he hoped.

She was still at the shop, and she dropped quickly into the damask chair. Her whole world was contained in the voice in her ear. She was now his senior analyst, the one who kept her head, the one who didn't waste time with questions that couldn't be answered. And although her heart was pounding, and her blood rushing hotly beneath her skin, the Ruth whose future was promised to him could wait until he said what he needed to say.

"I understand." Her voice was shaking, and she felt the prick of tears at the back of her eyes, but she forced herself into a calm of sorts. "What, Harry? What do you want to say?"

Her attempt at composure washed a peace over him, and he closed his eyes. "Thank you, my Ruth. Thank you for that." He was so grateful for her lack of hysteria, for her understanding that he didn't have the energy or the inclination to argue, for her sure sense that he had already explored all the options before he would ever make a call such as this one. And he loved her very dearly for it.

She could hear Harry exhale softly, "Ruth, do you remember when I talked about the scale, the one that tips when more people are on one side than the other, no matter who those people happen to be?"

"Yes, when you had to make the choice to sacrifice Adam and Ros to save part of greater London? Yes, Harry, I remember."

"Well, I can't falter when the one that needs to be sacrificed is me." Ruth's heart tightened, but she stayed quiet as he continued. "I did something, long ago, that I'm terribly ashamed of. I gave an order that caused an innocent man to die. His son has come for revenge, and if I don't do this, others, more innocent people, will die instead of me." Harry paused, and Ruth waited. "I can't live with that, Ruth."

Her voice was so soft he almost couldn't make it out. "I know, Harry."

He went on. "And what I need to say to you is that there's a good reason for this. I've put myself in danger before without thinking about the effect it would have on anyone else, but I can't do that anymore. I don't want you to be hurt, to wonder why I would be willing to take myself away from you. It's the hardest thing in the world for me to do. Not the thought of dying, but the thought of leaving you behind."

Now the tears were coursing down her cheeks, but Ruth made an effort to speak so that Harry wouldn't know. Again she said, "I know, Harry."

"And I want you to know that I've never really been sure about where we go when we die, and I still don't know." Harry's voice broke, just the tiniest bit, and Ruth heard it. "But I will find you, my Ruth. Be sure of that. No matter where I go, I will find you."

Now she had to ask the questions, because she sensed his urgency. She was afraid he would hang up soon. "What are you going to do, Harry? How long do we have?" Ruth made an effort to keep her breathing in check. She wanted him to talk as much as he wished, as she memorised the sound of his voice.

Harry smiled weakly at the absurdity of what he was about to say. "I'm going to get shot, but I'll be wearing a vest. If he goes for anywhere but the head, I'll call you the moment I can." He paused, and spoke lower, "If he goes for the head, Ruth, I want you to know that I love you more than I ever thought was possible. And remember our talk, my love. You go on, and find peace with this. I'm doing it with my eyes open. It's my debt to pay."

Her voice was breaking now, as she gave in to the tears. Her mind refused to believe that this was a possibility. "I know there's nothing I can say to change your mind, so I won't try, but God, Harry!" She sighed loudly, giving in. "I love you. I love you so much. I'll sit here and wait for your call. How long?"

"If all goes to plan, within an hour. If not, you call Tom. He's promised that if anything ever happens to me, he'll make sure you're always safe."

Her voice was a soft cry, "Harry, I love you. I'll talk to you within the hour." He heard her gulping for breath, and she lost her resolve. She turned steely, demanding. "D-don't you _dare_ l-leave me, Harry Pearce."

He felt himself beginning to falter, and took a deep breath. "I won't if I can help it. I love you. Know that, beyond anything else. I love you, my Ruth." He pushed the button and forced his own tears to retreat as he began to walk toward the Plaza.

_I love you, my Ruth._ These were the last words he spoke to her now, and it was the last thought in his mind as he stepped into the path of Davey King's bullet.

* * *

It was half past six.

Ruth hadn't moved. She still sat in the damask chair, her eyes alternating between the wall clock across from her and the mobile in her hands, which she held gently, as if it were precious and fragile, the last egg of some endangered species entrusted to her care. It was her lifeline to Harry, and she put every ounce of her strength toward making it ring.

6:34 p.m. Not yet an hour. Still within the hour. He had rung off at 5:42 p.m., so she was still well within the hour. Her tears had dried, and now she was made of iron. Her breath was shallow, as if she were hiding, not wanting to be heard. In fact, she was so frightened, she had no energy for anything else.

6:36 p.m. And still she hadn't moved. Horrible thoughts, of _what if_, and _maybe _were beginning to creep in. She pushed them away with firm conviction, because Ruth knew that if Harry were no longer alive, she would know. Just as if some part of her were suddenly to fall off, an arm, or a leg, she would know. If his heart were to stop beating, she knew hers would as well.

6:40 p.m. _Oh, God, Harry. I can't bear this._ Ruth felt her eyes begin to blur, and her breathing changed as the thoughts started to take hold. She pushed them away again, but with less conviction. Inside her head, she was begging, _please, please, let him be all right._

6:43 p.m. _No. He can't be dead_. Her head dropped to her chest, and she let the phone go. It fell into the safety of her lap, released finally from the warmth of her hands. And her tears came, dripping off the ends of her lashes, causing small grey circles to spread around the phone and into the fabric of her skirt.

And just as she began to let go of hope, it rang. Harry's number on the screen, and when she pushed the button, his voice. "Ruth?"

Now she was crying, and laughing, and so grateful. "You're late! Oh, God, Harry, you're okay? You're not hurt?"

He groaned, "_Uhhh_, well, that's up for debate. It only hurts when I breathe."

Ruth stood up and began to pace. After sitting coiled for so long, she had to move. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Unfortunately, that requires breathing, my love. And I'm trying to do as little of that as possible." He paused, and she could hear him groan softly again. "May I tell you when you're here? Only five days. Can you wait?"

Ruth sighed and leant against a bookcase. "Yes, Harry. I can wait. I'm so grateful you're all right. Do you need to be seen by a doctor? Even through a vest, you can get hurt, yes?"

Harry exhaled. "I'm inclined to agree with you there. But I have just been seen. No permanent damage, just the beginnings of quite a magnificent bruise. It's presently about the size of a grapefruit, right over my heart. It should be rather spectacular by the time you arrive." Harry took another ragged breath, and added softly, "I believe it may require kisses."

Remembering the drawing he did on her own bruise in the safe house, Ruth said tenderly, "Keep a pen handy. I'll fix it the way you fixed mine."

"Ah, yes. I was there earlier, Ruth. Sheets piled on the bed, candles still lined up. It was all I could do to concentrate." Harry paused, and then he said slowly, his voice low, "I'm very glad I'm still alive. It means I can make love with you again."

Ruth's tears began to fall afresh, but this time, from gratitude. "I was so scared, Harry."

"I know." His voice was soft in her ear. "Thank you for being calm. It would have made it much harder to do if you weren't. And I _had_ to do it. I know how difficult that must have been for you, my love. I owe you the world for ... " The last words trailed off with his lack of breath.

"Shhhhhh. Don't talk, Harry. You're safe, that's all that matters. I'll hear it all when I get there." She paused, catching her own breath. "Five days." Ruth sighed. "Five days until I'm with you, in England, in our house, in our bed." She laughed at the thought. "I want take-away fish and chips. There are none in all of Paris that compare. And you. I want you."

Harry started to laugh, but then thought better of it, "You're not a very demanding woman. I offer you the world, and you choose fish and chips. And me."

Her voice was gentle, and full of love. "You're all I need. I can even do without the chips."

"I love you very much, my Ruth."

"I love you, too, Harry. I was so afraid I'd lost you. I couldn't breathe."

"I know the feeling. And now, I have to pull myself into some semblance of order and pay a visit to the Home Secretary. I'll call you tonight?"

"Yes, Harry. Anytime. I'll wait up. All night if need be."

"Only five days."

She could hear the smile in his voice. "Yes, Harry. Only five days."

* * *

Ruth pulled the scarf around her head more tightly against the chill of the breeze off the water. Tom stood beside her, a tall, strong presence, and she was immensely grateful for him. She found that she was actually quite terrified. There was a slight chance that she could be discovered by the authorities and taken beyond Harry's reach, but that chance was worth it. Below the mist, she could see the distant shore. England. And she knew that Harry was there.

The original plan had been for Tom to take Ruth all the way to Harry's, but Harry wanted to have the drive back to London with her, so she knew he would be waiting in Dover. He'd set his alarm for some godforsaken hour to meet them just outside the border agency. He'd said he wouldn't sleep anyway, knowing that she would be so close.

Ruth looked at her watch. Nearly 4:15 a.m. and as yet, no problems. She felt her heart beating strongly and tried to determine how much of it was fear, and how much was excitement, anticipation. Forty-eight hours, give or take, with Harry. A taste of their lives as they would be together in that elusive and mysterious "someday."

She looked over at Tom and saw that he was looking at her. "You okay?" he asked her with a smile.

She smiled back. "Yes. Nervous. Excited. Scared, a little."

He put his arm around her and squeezed. A brotherly, sweet hug. "It'll be fine." He winked at her. "You're dead, remember? Just a ghost. Ghosts can't be seen."

She laughed. "Well, then, you're married to a ghost, Tom Quinn."

He raised his eyebrows. "God, I'm back to keeping track of legends. I guess we never do leave, do we? Forever spooks."

Ruth looked out at the water and they stood in silence for a moment. Then she spoke, just loudly enough for him to hear her over the engines. "When do you think it will be over, Tom?"

He sighed. "I had hopes of getting the CCTV footage, but I have to be honest, it's becoming pretty clear that Mace had it all destroyed. The only one that exists is the one they faked. So now we're focusing on a confession from Baker, but he's got his heels dug in." Tom shrugged. "Short answer? Don't know."

Ruth kept her eyes out at the sea, and stayed silent. Although Harry was uncharacteristically optimistic about how quickly he could get her home, this was what Ruth had expected, and she knew she could trust Tom to tell her the truth. After a pause, he continued.

"Long answer, Ruth? Find a way to live with the way it is. I know that's not what you want to hear, but you know, the two of you have so much more than most people ever find. I've never seen a man love someone the way he loves you, unless, of course, it's me with my wife." He looked to see if she smiled, and she did, so he went on. "I never thought Harry had it in him, actually. I thought he'd closed himself down over the years, detached himself from any romantic feelings. But he's different now, and it's his love for you that's done it."

Now she looked at him, and in the dim light from the ferry he could see there were tears in her eyes. He tilted his head at her, "Ah, Ruth. Both of you. So much love there, it's completely obvious." He pulled her closer. "Just take it a day at a time, and somehow things will work out. Nothing stays the same, you know? Something will happen. Baker will find Jesus and suddenly confess. Harry will decide he's had enough of the Services and move to Paris. You'll go together to somewhere completely different. Or you'll keep seeing each other when you can. How bad is it, really?"

She suddenly laughed, and the tears spilled over. Ruth caught them with her scarf, and looked at him, her face brighter. "Thanks, Tom. You're right. We are lucky, aren't we?" She hugged his arm to her. "You're good friends, you and Christine. Did Harry tell you our new plan? To get married this summer on Cyprus?"

"Yes, and he invited us. I told him just to let us know when, and we'll be there." He smiled at her. "You know, we've been working so hard at getting the business off the ground, we haven't spared much time for ourselves. You two are good for us."

There was a pale light beginning in the sky at the horizon, as the sun began its rise. With the slight addition of its heat, the mist began to disperse, and Ruth could just barely make out the cliffs in the distance. Her breath caught sharply, and Tom said, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Her voice choked. "Oh, Tom, you have no idea."

Twenty minutes later, her heart full, Ruth stepped beyond the doors of the border offices and out into the fresh, crisp air of England.

And there was Harry, standing by his car, looking so much like he did the last time she had been here in England with him. Her favourite coat with the lovely velvet collar, his cheeks flushed with the cold and with emotion, his eyes loving her, his lips barely parted. Ruth thought she couldn't bear it, she was so happy.

They walked slowly toward each other, their eyes locked. And when they met, they joined, fitting perfectly, as always. Another kiss, not goodbye this time, but hello. He pulled away and his voice was sweet and soft in her ear.

"Welcome home, my Ruth."

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE**

* * *

She couldn't decide where to look. At Harry and the short curls at his neck in full bloom from the mist of the sea, or the lovely English country that flew by. So she compromised, keeping her fingers in the curls and her eyes floating between him and the road. She did love to watch him drive, his concentration divided, his eyes soft on her.

He was telling her about Davey King, about how it felt when the bullet hit the vest, knocking him backward. "Never been kicked by a mule, but it is an apt description." She was listening to every word, answering him, trying to express her agony in that hour of waiting, but there was a part of Ruth that was so completely in a state of grace, of bliss, that it sat separate, and simply existed. This was the love she had spent her life dreaming of, looking for. He filled her so entirely that she still had to catch her breath now and then.

Now he turned to her with the crooked smile. "Fish and chips? Really? Can't we do better than that?"

She laughed at the non sequitur. "Well, not for breakfast, Harry. Right now, I rather fancy that breakfast we had in Bath, the one that could last all day if we let it?"

"Are you proposing I drive to Bath and get us a room so that you can have breakfast in it?"

She looked at him from under her lashes. "Not just breakfast, then."

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Then, laughing, they both said, "No."

Ruth spoke first. "God, that was a time, wasn't it? I almost said yes." Her hand moved to his cheek. "I loved Bath, Harry. I'll never forget it. It will always be the place where we first made love. But I want you to take me home. And I wouldn't mind breakfast when we get there."

"Everything we need is waiting. I did a proper shop last night. Good English tea, and I must admit I have most of what we need to recreate that Bath breakfast as well."

Ruth was silent for a moment, and then said, "Thank you, Harry, for making this possible. I know I don't need to tell you what it means to me. To be back here, with you, going home." Harry turned to her with what she thought was her favourite smile, soft, subtle, full of love, but with an underlying desire for her. She suddenly wanted all of him, to feel his skin under her hands, and she murmured softly, "Mmmmm, perhaps breakfast can wait a little ... "

He gazed back at her. "You're going to have to stop looking at me like that, Ruth, or I'll need to pull over. We have three quarters of an hour before we reach London, and at this rate, I won't make it."

She smiled seductively, pulled her hand away and moved back into her seat. "Done. But I had no idea you were so vulnerable to my charms, Harry. A little toying with your curls and a batted eyelash or two, and you're lost? Hate to think what would happen if I did what's really on my mind right now."

Harry put on his turn signal and glanced in the rear view mirror as if he were pulling to the side of the road. Ruth laughed, and said, "No, no, keep going! Harry, you do love to call my bluff, don't you?"

Another smile. This time, the triumphant, playful one. "Behave, then," he said.

"Is this when we talk about rugby, or something equally anti-erotic?" She was quoting him from long ago at her house, and Harry noticed.

"You've such a memory, Ruth. Do you remember everything I say?"

"I suppose I do." She shrugged. "We both said so little for so long. I think quite a lot about those years, Harry, when we did our communicating with our eyes, or a phrase, or a smile. I was thinking the other day about a conversation we had on the Grid, when you had lost the DG job? Do you remember that?"

"Yes, I do, very well. Danny was there. And as I recall it, you, my love, were trying to get away for a date." He turned and raised his eyebrows at her, aware that he was feeling suddenly, ridiculously, irrationally, jealous.

Ruth's cheeks coloured a pale pink. "With a girlfriend, Harry. I always tried to make you all think I had more of a life than I had. I was going out for a drink with Anna, the girl from Special Branch. She was a good source, and apart from that, she did make me laugh, but God, she was desperate for a husband. She used to call us 'the spinsters,' which was beyond irritating."

"So when I called out to you, and you said, 'I'm not listening,' you weren't going to meet a man?"

"No." Ruth paused. "But I wanted you to think I was."

He turned to her and smiled. "Sly girl. It worked." He looked back at the road. "I must admit I wasn't very fair to you in my thoughts that night. I didn't feel then that I had any life to offer you, but I didn't want you to have anyone else either. I actually thought about you quite a lot, after I'd gone home. Sat in my chair with a scotch and tried to imagine your man, what he would look like."

Ruth was curious. "And what did you come up with?"

Harry sighed deeply. "I came up with 'not me.'" He looked back at her. "That was one of the first times I thought that what I felt might be love, my Ruth. Because although I'd never truly felt it before, I understood that real love was wanting you to be happy, even if it meant it wasn't with me."

Her eyes grew soft. "I was very glad you didn't get the DG job, Harry. I told you so. And when you asked me to help you with your interviews, oh, I was in heaven. Thought about it night and day, really. At one point I recall you practically throwing me out of your office, I was such a pest about it."

Harry laughed. "Only because you asked me such damned pointed questions. Felt like I was in an ongoing interview, and you were waiting around every bloody corner with a new issue." He put his hand on hers. "But good questions. Always good questions. I knew I could count on you for that."

Ruth said softly, "I had an interest in the outcome. I didn't want you to go."

"And as I said then, I didn't want the job. But it was still hard to lose it, and to tell you I had. I wanted to impress you ... " He smiled at her, " ... with my desirability."

She smiled back. "No need. The deed was done already." Ruth watched out the window in silence for a moment, and then said, "Harry. Could you be happy with that job now?"

He turned to her. "DG?" She nodded. He considered for a moment, his eyes forward. "That's assuming they'd have me, which is a rather large assumption. Why do you ask?"

Ruth was hesitant, not wanting to lead him too much, but she said, "Well, you did just put yourself in front of a bullet, and I wondered how a desk job looks to you now in the bright light of day."

"Ah." Harry came right to the point, the one she was hoping she'd danced around. "Is this for you, or for me? Would that make you less worried about me?"

Ruth laughed softly and looked down at her hands. "I guess that was a bit transparent, wasn't it?" She looked back at him, her face serious. "Yes. It would. But not if it would make you unhappy." She couldn't hold back, so she reached her hand up again to touch his neck. "I don't want to change your life to the point that you don't know who you are anymore, Harry, but I was so afraid for you. I'm simply wondering if you had a time in mind when you might pull back a bit from the ... the ... work in the field. You're not ... erm ... "

Harry laughed, "Young? Is that the word you're searching for, my love?"

Ruth shook her head vigorously. "No, it's not, because I don't honestly think of your age. You're obviously fit, your mind doesn't seem to be going yet ... " Now she was teasing him, and he turned to look at her with a smile. "...much."

He laughed as she went on, "I think you could do this as long as you wished, Harry. I just wonder sometimes if you have a plan for yourself, that's all."

Harry didn't take long to answer. "It's very interesting you should ask that, my Ruth, because a plan was formulating rather strongly just before I stood up to take that bullet. And it happened to be the very job you just mentioned. You are a bit of a mind reader, you know."

"It's logical, Harry. You have more to lose now than you have in the past, you've said it yourself. And apart from the danger you put yourself in, you have a wealth of experience to bring to that job. As I said, logical. You're the best person to sit in that chair, really." She tickled his neck. "I know a good coach, if you're looking."

"You'd be the one I'd ask, my love. I'd find notes tacked to the bath mirror: '_What's your view on the moral imperative of sacrifice?'_" He laughed and looked over at her, "Notes everywhere, on my ties, my pillow, my breakfast?"

Ruth pulled a lock of hair and laughed, too. "You _need_ me, Harry, for a multitude of reasons."

He stopped laughing and looked at her, his eyes warm and deep brown. "Truer words were never said, my love." He turned back. "And I will think about it. I have been thinking about it, quite a lot actually. I'd have to curb my tongue a bit, play the game, but I refuse to turn into a politician to get a job. You understand that?"

"I wouldn't want you to, Harry. And I don't think it's necessary. It's all in how you present your case. And the job isn't open now, so this is a hypothetical discussion, yes?"

"Yes, but now is the time to plant the idea. A few well-placed words about my intentions, and in time, who knows?" They were coming into traffic, and Harry concentrated on the wheel through a tricky turn for a moment, then he continued, "I find I want more time with you, Ruth. I'm forever thinking of ways I can wag school, you know?" He looked at her, smiling.

"What you're saying is that I'm a bad influence on you, Harry." She gazed at him, partially teasing, but partially serious.

He understood what she was asking, and he answered it seriously. "Not a bad influence, but you have got me thinking, Ruth. I'm very conflicted. I love my job, I do it well, and I'm not yet too decrepit to do the things I need to do, even in the field. I suppose I'm not sure what the retirement age should be, but there are times when I hear that voice in my head, saying, 'Aren't you getting a bit old for this?'"

He looked over at her, and with sadness tingeing his voice, said, "And on the heels of that voice comes another, 'Wouldn't you like to lie on a beach with Ruth, to travel, to make love ... ' To be the banker, my Ruth. Something more ... normal." His eyes back on the road, he said, softly, "Part of that thinking is you, to be sure, but it's also partly the residual gift of Davey King's bullet."

Ruth was silent, watching him. She wanted to be sure he really meant this, and wasn't simply saying it because it was what she might want to hear. And she knew it wasn't something they had to think about now. But Ruth was suddenly, paradoxically, grateful to Davey King.

As the light began to fill the car with the sun that was now over the horizon, she could see how tired he looked. She ran her thumb gently across the deep lines at his eyes as he kept his focus on the road. She loved every line on his face, and always had. They gave him animation, whatever "character" was, in a face. They gave his smiles more depth, his sadness more solemnity, his anger more menace. Even his countenance at rest spoke of his life, his experience. Ruth completely loved the look of Harry. She felt she could study him for hours.

But today, he looked tired, and she was aware of a need to comfort, to ease him. She never wanted to pry about his work, but she knew it was work that was on his mind. "How much can you tell me about the last couple of weeks, Harry? Not the specifics, I don't need those. But about how it's affected you? Can you say?"

Harry breathed out softly. "You know I trust you completely, Ruth, yes?" He looked over at her and she nodded as he continued. "It's not a matter of trust, it's a matter of you having information that you ... you don't need, or that would put you in danger." She waited for him to collect his thoughts, which he was clearly trying to do.

"I've thought so much about this lately, as it relates to marriage, to us. There's something I've always felt about this work and those that are close to me, but I don't think I've ever said it to you. I have a target, a bulls-eye, painted on me, Ruth. Look at someone like Davey King, from so long ago and the IRA, still angry with me, still seeking revenge. You can't imagine how many there are out there who want the same."

She nodded. "I can imagine. You stand for your principles, Harry, and you're not afraid. That makes enemies."

"I've never been afraid for me, Ruth, but I find now that I'm afraid for you. When you stand close to me, and you're always close to me now, you stand within that target, my love. And as we discovered with Cotterdam, people can hurt you and it hurts me. It hurts me more than if they came after me directly."

He paused for a moment as he looked back at the road. "I can find a solution to most challenges, but I can't seem to find one for this. I just keep thinking it will come to me, but it doesn't. I worry every day for you. I worry for you right now. "

"Why right now?"

"Because I want to do this very public thing and marry you. I want to shout out to the world that a crusty old spook like me has found this inexpressibly beautiful, bright, winning woman, and that she unaccountably loves me enough to say she'll spend her life with me. But that paints the bulls-eye directly on you, Ruth. " He reached his hand across to hers and turned to look at her. "I start thinking that's selfish of me."

Ruth held his hand in both of hers and shook her head. "This is a decision we're both making, Harry. I choose to be with you. And please don't forget, although I'm in exile, I do work for MI5, too. I have willingly, eyes open, painted that target on myself. Do you recall that there was a paper I signed, one we all signed? That Danny signed? " She paused, her voice going lower. "One that Zaf signed?"

Now Harry was silent, and she knew she had struck a nerve. She simply waited for him to find the words. Then he exhaled, and said, "I know. And any officer who dies is overwhelmingly tragic, but Zaf ... I can't say why, but the way he died, it's like a lead weight on my heart, Ruth. I can't stop thinking about him."

"How did he die? Can you tell me?"

"Do you want to know? Do you want the same picture I have in my head? When you asked me before, I told you it was quick. I wanted to spare you the pain of the truth, but then, am I lying to you by withholding? I wonder if it's fair for you to see me troubled and not know why."

"Then tell me, Harry. I'm asking."

"We haven't recovered his body, and I doubt we will, but we've gotten reports. Spies are a great commodity, Ruth. They have information that is exceptionally valuable to our enemies. Codes, locations, names of other agents, things that can be used against us. An officer is a repository of that information, and there are people out there, very bad people, who will do anything to unlock that repository."

"What are you saying, that Zaf was tortured?"

"Ruth, tell me again. Do you want to hear this?"

She answered without hesitation. "Yes. He was my friend. I can't take what he had to give me in life, and then turn away from his death, Harry. I may be stronger than you think I am."

"I know how strong you are. I just don't want to be indulging myself at your expense."

"Sharing your pain isn't an indulgence. It's what people in love do, what married people do."

"All right, then. From our intelligence, he had been bought and sold numerous times. Tortured, and then passed on to someone else, anyone who was willing to pay. He was very sick with the virus that you read about, and was suffering from a bullet wound to the stomach when they first got him. They must have given him the vaccine so that they could continue to question him."

He could hear her breathing change, becoming faster, deeper. Harry turned to her, his head tilted in a question. She nodded, and said, "I'm fine. Go on."

Harry turned back to the road. "I've been tortured, Ruth. If it's done well, you lose sight of everything you know, of rules, of honour, of right and wrong. The information you hold, that you once knew was so important to keep, begins to lose its context, and you wonder why you can't simply tell them what they want to know. You long for peace, for quiet, for stillness. You dream of another life, the one you used to know, and it begins to be the dream, the thing that isn't real."

She lifted his hand and kissed it. "I'm so sorry, Harry." Ruth's love for him was strong enough that she could almost feel the pain he was describing. "But you survived. And for Zaf, you said there was no body. Are we certain he's dead?"

"Ros brought back his clothes." Harry looked at her to be assured that she was still all right, and then continued. "Covered in his blood. The word from her source was that he had died in his cell. Poor bastard was wishing for it, I'm certain. These are horrifying people, Ruth. No humanity."

Ruth was silent for a moment, and then she sighed. "Poor Zaf. Poor sweet Zaf."

Harry's anger was beginning to surface. "It's the business we're in. And the thing about it is, even if we leave it, we can't ever, for as long as we live, forget that it goes on every day. We can't lose our memories, can we?" He looked over at Ruth, who stayed silent, wanting him to talk it out.

"The old ones, the men mostly, who have done my job and others like it, the primary feature of their elderly lives seems to be a sort of survivor's guilt. The question seems to be, why was I spared when so many others lost their lives? What is it about fate, or destiny, or whatever name you choose to give it, that allows some to be chosen and others not?"

"So I watch new officers come through the door, and I sit in meetings, and all I can think is, will they be at this table next year? Next month? Next week?" He looked over at her, his eyes glistening. "And will I be at the table?"

"Oh, Harry." She reached over and put her hand on his arm. He took a hand from the wheel and held hers. Ruth said, "Are you ready to leave it? Entirely? You sound at times as if you might be."

Harry raised his eyebrows and exhaled. "Christ, I'm completely conflicted. Utterly torn. One day it's yes, the next it's never." He kissed her hand. "The difference is that now, I have someone to talk with about it." He looked at her with love in his eyes. "Someone who won't ask me to do bloody word associations."

She smiled coyly at him, feeling he'd said all he wanted to for now. "Maybe I should." Ruth tilted her head. "Love?"

Harry moved his hand to her face, trying to keep one eye on the road. He said tenderly, "Us."

"Breakfast?" She gave him the hungriest, most pitiful look she could muster.

He laughed. "Soon."

"After?" She raised her eyebrows slightly.

His voice was low, warm, soft. "Sex."

Ruth laughed. "God, Harry, we _are_ compatible. Those would have been my answers exactly!"


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX**

* * *

There was a shaft of light from the setting sun that fell soft across her back as she slept. Harry hadn't closed his eyes, nor would he until it was dark and he could see her no longer. He'd had enough regrets about the last night Ruth had spent here in his bed. He was unwilling to sacrifice memories for sleep this time around.

He longed to touch her, but didn't, for fear of waking her. They'd each had little or no sleep the night before, and he wanted her to rest. Harry thought with a smile that lack of sleep was a theme, of sorts, in their relationship. Their secrets meant that the time they spent together fell outside of their conventional lives, beyond their responsibilities. So they talked and travelled and made love in the time they would be allowed an absence from the rest of the world, the time they would normally sleep.

He couldn't see her face, but he didn't need to. It was caught in his memory, imprinted there forever. He scanned down her lovely long neck to the small indentation where her shoulder blades met, down the line of her back to the drape of the sheets just over her hip. The reflection on his butterscotch bedroom turned her skin the colour of caramel. As he watched, the light of the waning sun drew deep shadows in the folds of the eggshell-coloured cotton, and transformed her before his eyes into a Botticelli masterpiece.

He watched and listened for a time to the perfect synchronisation of the rise of her chest and the soft sound of her breath, rhythmic, even, unhurried. She was so vulnerable and trusting in the act of sleep, in letting go. He wondered if she was dreaming, and if she dreamt of him. He wanted to keep her here forever, hidden, safe, and his.

Harry was just about to give in to his desire to run a finger across her back, when she stirred and gave a soft sigh. She turned toward him, draping her arm over her head in a move so unselfconsciously graceful that it caused him to catch his breath. Ruth looked at him with sleepy eyes and smiled. "Hello, Harry," she said.

He leant forward and kissed her, mostly because he couldn't speak. At times, the depth of his feeling for her confused and frightened him. When he came in contact with the full measure of her importance in his life, as he did right now, he felt lost, almost helpless. He pulled away and brushed his thumb across her lips, feeling their texture and the softness there, and seeing the delicate natural shade of pink that was present without any enhancements. She was a wonder to him. Finally, he found his voice. "Hello, my Ruth."

"What time is it?"

Harry gazed over her head at his watch. "Quarter to nine."

She looked at him, her eyes still drowsy. "Long days. Summer's coming. What's today, the 18th of May? June comes next. That's summer." She reached a hand up and brushed his hair back from his forehead, and said softly, "People get married in the summer."

Harry smiled at her. "Yes, they do." He kissed her again, this time longer, deeper, as he pressed his full length against her. Her body was warm from sleep, pliable and soft.

When they'd first arrived at his house early this morning, they'd managed part of the breakfast Ruth wanted, but had only eaten some strawberries and a slice of toast, standing up, while starting to prepare eggs and sausages. A shared strawberry was all it had taken, sweet and succulent, followed by a kiss too sensuous to stop. The stove was turned off, perishables back to the fridge, and they were on their way up the stairs.

There was a nudge out for all three animals and a firmly closed bedroom door. Ruth reclaimed her side of the bed, and after eighty-seven long days, they were finally at home, in each other's arms. Harry held her for a time, as Ruth suddenly found the emotion too difficult to contain. She tried to explain her tears, but Harry quieted her. He understood, because he was feeling it just as strongly as she was.

It was as if they had both been swimming against a powerful tide during the long days that led to this moment. The last time they lay here their minds had been relatively untroubled -- after Bath and before Maudsley, Cotterdam, exile, separation, and stolen nights. A whole future lay before them then, and although they had known some uneasy feelings about that future, they never could have imagined the road they would be on now.

Slowly, as her tears stopped and her breathing calmed, Harry moved his lips across her forehead, then down to taste the salt of her still-wet cheeks. He whispered, "I know, I feel it too," and she leant up to meet him. They joined in a kiss that contained all of their joy of at last being back here together, but also the bittersweet knowledge that there was always a time limit on their happiness. They both knew all too well that every hello had a goodbye moving fast behind it.

Harry was ready to simply hold her, perhaps to have her sleep in his arms, but Ruth let him know she still wanted more. Her fingers played across his back and then moved around to unbutton his shirt, slowly, as they kissed. When his chest was free, her hands slid under the fabric and around him, and she pulled him to her. Harry groaned softly, and Ruth moved away with a question in her eyes. That is, until her eyes fell on the fiercely coloured purples, blues, yellows, and greens of the bruise that spread from his collarbone down over the left side of his chest. She gasped, and said, "Oh, my God, Harry!"

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" He looked down as far as he could, and then met her eyes.

Ruth looked at it again, and ran her fingertips over it, so gently that they felt like feathers to Harry. Then her lips, light on his skin, and Harry actually felt a lessening of the ache, as if she were administering some ethereal anaesthetic with her mouth. She murmured as she moved, trying to draw the pain out of it. Harry lay back, and with a low laugh said softly, "I _thought_ kisses might be needed."

Harry ran his fingers through her hair, and began to feel himself wanting her. He opened his eyes and started to move to his side, but she whispered gently, "No, stay there." Without a word, she undressed him, trousers first, and then, being careful not to hurt him, she worked his shirt down over his shoulders and off.

Ruth stood and undressed herself as he lay and watched, and then moved over him until she was sitting, gazing down at him, her beautiful body straight, her pale skin glowing against the strong light coming through the windows. Her face held one of the looks Harry so loved, a combination of the shyness she felt in the bright light of day, and the passion that drove her to overcome her innate timidity.

She looked at the bruise, in full view now. "Does it hurt if you don't move, Harry?"

He looked up at her, wanting badly to touch her, to hold her, his pain a distant memory. Her face was now serene, calm, as she looked at his chest and then into his eyes. He said, "No, not if I'm still."

She gave him just the hint of a smile. "Then be still."

She kept her eyes on Harry and began to move her hips slowly against him. His hands rested on the soft skin of her thighs, and when he tried to reach further, she smiled and said, "No. Remember the tub in Bath? It's my turn, and _this_ is for you."

She resisted her desire to bend down and kiss him. Staying where she was as they moved together, Ruth had the advantage not only of seeing Harry, but the view of the bedroom. She felt she was fully here with him, every sensation clear, but she was also memorising everything for later. Even when the wondrous feelings began to overtake her, she forced herself to keep her eyes open, to look at him, at the patterns the morning sunshine made on the butterscotch panel in front of her. And as she eased herself onto him, she still kept her eyes on his.

Among the gifts of watching his face as they made love was that she saw not only the tenderness in his eyes, but also his gradual release, his surrender to her. Harry trusted her completely, and she saw him let go of the control that was the defining factor of his days. He raised his arms above his head, opening himself fully to her as she moved, and then he allowed himself to fall with her, and to let her see that fall. Ruth reached out and took his hands in hers and they clenched tightly, until finally, they both gave in and closed their eyes, lost.

Now she bent to kiss him, gently, putting no pressure on his chest, but his arms went round her and he pulled her tightly to him, no longer feeling the pain inflicted by Davey King. Harry felt only her, his one love, his Ruth. They lay in each other's arms, catching their breath. Ruth nuzzled her face into his neck, feeling his heartbeat there, where the warmth and the divine, familiar scent of his sandalwood shave soap enveloped her.

They drifted for a time, not asleep, but at rest, at peace, content, and happy.

Harry moved slightly and bent his head down to kiss her tenderly on the forehead. He whispered to her, "It seems to me we never had that breakfast. Are you still hungry? I am."

She gazed up at him. "Such a relief to not have it always be me who's the hungry one. Yes, I'm starved." She rolled over on her back and stretched like a cat. "God, it's lovely to be here, Harry."

Harry sat up slowly, taking care not to antagonise the muscles of his left arm, which were still sore. "It's even lovelier to have you here. A definite increase in ambiance since you arrived." He leant down and picked up his shirt. "Your uniform, miss." Harry turned and kissed her. "Please. It makes me very happy," he said with his lopsided smile.

Smiling back at him, Ruth took it and shrugged into it. "I love your shirts, Harry. I still have the one you gave me. I wear it to bed sometimes." She snuggled up to his back. "It's lost the scent of you, though. I think I'll have to pinch some of your soap while I'm here."

They made their way back downstairs and had another try at breakfast. Before long, they were sitting at the kitchen table over steaming cups of Earl Grey, strawberries, savoury eggs, and maple pork sausages. Scarlet, Phoebe and Fidget, delighted by the aromas and the activity in the house, surrounded them, waiting patiently for something wonderful to happen.

Ruth pointed her fork at Harry disapprovingly. "You've taught them to beg, Harry."

He raised his eyebrows, wanting to set her straight. "Ah, no, there was no teaching involved with those two. Your girls had all the skills long before _I_ ever got to them. And, Christ, the rubbing! I've had to purchase boxes of those lint-rollie gadgets, or forever decide against wearing dark trousers." He popped a strawberry in his mouth. "Where do they _get_ all that hair?"

Laughing, Ruth gave him a pitying look. "Oh, poor Harry. I have changed your life, haven't I?"

He leant back, smiling. "You have no idea, Ruth."

"Actually, I think I do." She took a sip of her tea and looked back at him, teasing, "All for the better, I might add."

Harry reached for a second strawberry. "I know you think I'll complain at that statement, but I happen to agree with you. My colleagues might not, as here it is, another day, and I'm not on duty."

"Well it _is_ Sunday, Harry. But is this me, being a bad influence again?"

Harry nodded solemnly. "Absolutely leading me astray." Then he smiled at her and shook his head lightly. "You must know that in any case, barring a national emergency, I'd be here with you. But actually, I'm on doctor's orders. He said unless work was totally necessary, I should take the week and rest. Normally I would tell him to bugger off and do as I please, but for some reason this time his counsel seemed rather sound." Harry smiled slyly. "Don't you think?"

Ruth gave him a mock frown, "Of course. It's very bad for your health to go against doctor's orders." She reached her foot out and curled it around his. "Anyway, I know exactly what makes you feel better."

"Yes, you do." Harry narrowed his eyes at her, smiling. "My Nurse Ruth."

She tilted her head at him, "Ah, I like that. Yet another profession to add to my resumé." Ruth took one last bite of her eggs and pushed her plate away. "So, who's on call today? Adam or Ros?"

Harry stared back at her, and realised suddenly that he had never told her. Davey King had come into town on the day of Ros' "funeral," and from that point forward their short talks had been about Harry getting shot or Ruth getting to London.

Ruth saw the change in him immediately. "What, Harry? What is it?"

"Ros." At Ruth's alarmed look, he said quickly, "No, she's all right." He shook his head. "At least, I believe she is. She's in exile. She betrayed us, put a wire on the Grid, several, actually, and in my office... " Harry's voice trailed off, and he suddenly stopped. _In my office._ Why had this not occurred to him before? If Yalta was listening in on his conversations, how many had they heard whilst he was on his mobile with Ruth? He didn't think he'd ever used her name, only Sophie's, but what had he said? Had he ever said Paris?

Ruth squeezed his hand. "Harry. You've just gone white as a ghost. Are you well? What is it?"

In that split second, Harry made the decision not to tell her. He wasn't certain anyway, so why worry her? And why ruin the two days that they had together, finally, here in London? In fact, it was the same decision that Ruth had made in Calais, not to tell Harry about the couple who came to the shop looking for Sophie Persan. Both of these decisions to withhold were based in a care for the other, a desire not to set them worrying, a feeling there was probably nothing to it.

Had they shared what they knew, it's likely that they would have put two and two together, and they would have taken action. As it was, Harry promised himself that straightaway on Tuesday morning he would talk to Malcolm about the technology and capacity of the bug they found in his office. And when Ruth thought of the visitors to the shop, it only reminded her that she still needed to get Harry's ring size without his knowing.

Harry picked up her hand and held it, in response to her question. "I'm fine. Just hadn't realised I didn't tell you about Ros. We were on an op ... Christ, it was a week ago today. I thought she died right in front of me. I was bound and couldn't get to her, couldn't save her ... " The memory of it took hold for a moment, and he descended into silence, his eyes still locked on Ruth.

Ruth moved closer, speaking softly, "But you did save her. She's alive."

"No, Adam did. Juliet injected her with ..."

"Juliet? Juliet was there?"

Harry started from the beginning. He didn't tell Ruth too much, but it did feel natural to talk with her about work. He still felt as if she was his officer, his best sounding board. He stopped short of specifics, such as Yalta's mission to sabotage the American satellites or their connection to the people who took Zaf. He simply said that Juliet was working against MI5 now, and Ruth didn't press him further.

Right now, Ruth was looking slightly stunned. Finally she spoke, and it was with a tinge of bitterness. "Juliet not paralysed? And to think, I actually felt sorry for her." She peered at Harry under a typical Ruth frown. "Tell me she found some miracle cure, and that she wasn't just playing all of us."

"I can't. I honestly don't know. I don't have any idea who she is anymore."

"I was so jealous of her, Harry. She seemed to be everything I wasn't."

Harry stood and picked up his plate to take it to the sink, and as he reached around to get Ruth's, he kissed her. "You are nothing alike, my love. I thank God for that."

Ruth gathered up the cups and silver and followed him. "And Ros, what was she thinking?" Harry turned to speak, and she stopped him. "No, don't, Harry. I know you're only telling me part of this, and I don't want you to feel you have to cross the line. Knowing Ros, she had a reason. I'm not sure she's ever gotten over her father being sent to prison, and she may still blame you for that. So it makes sense that her ideology combined with her anger, and then led to her betraying you."

Harry started the hot water running in the sink, smiling at her assessment. "Very concise, as usual. And yes, I agree." Then he turned to Ruth, less cheerful. "I haven't had much of a chance to miss Ros on the Grid, but I will. And I truly worry about Adam. I think they ... were ... erm ..."

Ruth's eyebrows raised. "Together? Really?" She held up Harry's cup, asking if he wanted a fresh one, and he nodded. "I can see that being true. But, God, that means he's lost another ... oh, Harry, poor Adam." She pulled the tea down from the cupboard. "And I'll assume Ros is far, far away." Under her breath, she said, "I'll never get my coat back now."

Harry turned to her, "Sorry?"

Ruth laughed. "Oh, Ros and I switched coats when she took my place at my house. She got my lovely camel one, and I got her black wool. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I imagined walking onto the Grid when this is all over, and asking for my coat back."

Harry went back to the dishes, "You're still a little angry with her, aren't you?"

Ruth shrugged as she poured out the tea. "Oh, I don't know. Angry is a strong word. What would have happened if she hadn't reported me to Mace, Harry? It seemed to have been his plan from the beginning to frame me for Maudsley's murder, and, really, Ros just helped move it along. I suppose it did baffle me why she hated me so much, though."

"It wasn't you. It's another example of the target I was talking about. She knew you were special to me." He turned to look softly at Ruth. "Although she didn't know _how_ special." He put another dish in the rack. "She wanted to hurt me. And I think she was sorry, Ruth. In her way."

"I suppose, although she did tell me she never apologised." Ruth grimaced at him. "What a luxury that must be." She leant up and kissed him on the neck as he stood at the sink. "Come, leave the dishes, we'll finish them later. I'm starting to get sleepy, Harry. I'm feeling there will be a very long nap in my future."

Harry dried his hands and followed her into the lounge. He took the cup she handed him, and sat on the sofa next to her. Within moments, all three animals were cuddled in, Scarlet at Harry's feet, and Fidget and Phoebe curled around Ruth's legs and lap.

Harry and Ruth looked around them and smiled. Ruth said, "Well, isn't this a lovely little family?"

Harry put his arm round her, and pulled her close to him. "Yes." He kissed her head, gently. "Yes, it is."

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN**

* * *

The afternoon was lovely, peaceful, quiet. Ruth read in French to Harry from a copy of _Bleak House_ she'd brought, and he sat, mesmerised, charmed by her accent, which was nearly perfect now. And they stopped to talk, as they always did, this time about the judiciary system of Dickens' fictional _Jarndyce vs. Jarndyce_. They listened to music, one of Harry's favourite pieces, Verdi's _Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves_, with Ruth's head on his lap as she absentmindedly stroked Fidget, her eyes closed.

They were both tired, and late in the afternoon they went upstairs and Ruth got her nap, whilst Harry watched over her. And when the sun disappeared completely and dark descended on his bedroom, Harry slept as well. His arm lay gently over Ruth, his body formed to her back. In fact, they slept soundly for almost ten hours, finally, peacefully, together and at home. Fidget and Phoebe had significantly less real estate on which to sleep, but in their joy at having Ruth back, they made do. Even Scarlet moved closer on the rug, not willing to be left out.

When they awakened, it was Monday morning, and they had the entire day and most of the night ahead of them, as they didn't have to meet Tom in Dover until 3:30 in the morning on Tuesday. Over breakfast, Harry asked Ruth what she would like to do for the day.

"Am I allowed to go out?" She nibbled on a piece of toast, thinking. "I suppose the question is, do I want to go out? I haven't gone stir crazy yet, and how often do I get to be here with you? I think I'd like to stay here. Will that drive you mad?"

Harry shook his head. "Not in the least. This house suddenly seems the only place I'd like to be." He gazed at Ruth, and she looked so rested after a full night's sleep. Harry thought she looked more beautiful than he'd ever seen her. Wanting to cover the warmth he felt come to his cheeks, he took a sip of tea, forcing himself to stop staring at her.

"I have only one plan for the day," Harry said, "And that's to fulfil your wish for take-away fish and chips, my love. There's a very good place about three blocks down, and there happens to be a shop close by where we could rent DVDs. What do you say we rent a film or two, get take-away for lunch, and then I grill steaks for dinner?"

Ruth gave him a radiant smile. "Perfect. Oh, Harry, I'm very happy. Do I have to go back?" She was meaning it as an offhand remark, but they gazed at each other in earnest for a moment. Harry broke away first, looking down at his hands. Ruth looked sadly at him, and said, softly, "I know. I do." She reached across and touched his hand, just grazing it with her fingers, and as she did, she lightened her tone. "I'll be your brave officer, Harry, and get on that ferry as Mrs. Elizabeth Archer." She looked up and met his eyes. "But in my heart, I'm Lady Ruth Pearce, and always will be."

Harry could stand it no longer. He stood up and pulled her into his arms, gripping her so tightly that it hurt his chest, but still he wouldn't ease his hold on her. Ruth loved the way it felt, his strength coursing into her, and she felt even braver than she had moments ago. His voice was ardent in her ear, "I'm inches away from taking you somewhere exotic and living there with you. Tell me why I shouldn't do that, Ruth."

Ruth paused, wondering if she could come up with a good reason. "Because sooner or later you'd regret it?" It came out as a question, and Ruth supposed it was.

Harry sighed deeply. "I think it would be a long time before I regretted it." He pulled away and looked into her eyes. He thought of all the times he'd wished he could hold her, and couldn't. He leant down and put his lips on hers, gently at first, and then with all the power of the love that was surging through him. The thought of her leaving again tonight was a tangible pain. _Too soon. It's too soon._

They stood that way for a long time. As Harry calmed, so did the kiss, and he moved his lips from hers to her cheek, and then to her hair. Ruth's eyes were still closed, and her voice was somewhat breathless. "Mmm, gosh, Harry, that's a kiss I won't forget for a while. Have you always been so good at that?"

Harry laughed softly, "I don't think so. You inspire me." Still he didn't move. "I don't want to let you go."

She snuggled further into him. "Now? Or ever?"

"Neither. Both."

Ruth spoke into his chest. "Let's take our tea and go into the lounge. Will you make a fire? We need to talk, Harry."

He knew what she meant, and she was right. They had to find a way to live with this, or they would go insane. "Yes. I agree." He released his hold on her, and they moved apart. "You get the tea, and I'll make the fire. But first, just one thing."

Ruth looked up at him, smiling. She put her lips on his cheek and said softly, "I love you too, Harry."

"Mind reader," he whispered.

In a few minutes, they were being warmed on the outside by a fire, and on the inside by hot, sweet tea.

Ruth spoke first. "I had a good talk with Tom on the crossing, Harry. He made me realise something." She paused for a moment, finding the words. "We ... well, I ... need to be grateful for what time we have together, and not always be wishing it could be more. Otherwise, instead of enjoying this ... " She swept her eyes around the room, ending with Harry, kneeling, just finishing up at the fire, "... I'll be forever unhappy, and miss the best part of us together, you know?"

Harry looked down at his hands, rubbing them free of the tiny pieces of wood from the logs. "That's good advice, Ruth."

"Do you do that too, Harry? Wish it was more, even when we're together?"

He stood and walked to her, "All the time." He sat down next to her and put his arm around her back on the sofa. "I try to stay in the moment, but I can't ever seem to forget that there's a time, an hour, that it will end." He moved a lock of hair away from her face with his finger. "A time that you'll leave. Or I will."

"So how _do_ we stay in the moment?" Ruth asked.

Harry saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes, and pulled her close to him. The true warmth of the fire had reached them now, and he held her gently in the space beneath his shoulder. "I don't know, my love. But if I only concentrate on how this feels, right now, I can be here. If I think about how alone I'll be in this room when you're gone, I'm somewhere else. Maybe it's simply a matter of concentration, and discipline." He leant down and looked in her eyes, smiling sadly. "But when I'm with you, I generally despair of having either concentration _or_ discipline."

She shook her head, looking back at him. "You see? Bad influence." She kissed him, and he felt her lips tremble slightly. When she opened her eyes, there were definitely tears there. "So, is it an indulgence? Are we feeling sorry for ourselves? Tom said ..."

Harry spoke quickly, with a tinge of bitterness. "Tom gets to sleep next to his wife every night. It's easy for him to say anything." He took a deep breath and released it. "Sorry. That wasn't fair." Nodding, he said, "Yes, I'm feeling severely sorry for myself. I have to remember that the choices Tom made in order to have his current life are ones I haven't had the courage to make. Yet."

Ruth kept her head on his shoulder. "Harry. What would you do if I weren't in your life? Do you think you'd still be thinking of the DG job, or of retirement, or of just leaving, as Tom did?"

Harry was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he spoke, slowly. "Before you came into my life, before I knew I was in love with you, I had reconciled myself that I would go it alone. I think I've told you that I never thought I would find a woman who would put up with me, much less one I would want so much, one who could challenge my mind and stand up to me." His fingers played absentmindedly across the skin of her neck. "Christ, I love the way you think. No one has ever surprised me the way you do."

Ruth started to sit up and look at him, but he stopped her. "No, I think I like saying this to the fire instead of being distracted by those hypnotic eyes of yours, my Ruth. I might go completely off the deep end and wax poetic, so you'd best just listen." Ruth settled back down wordlessly, smiling.

Harry continued. "So thinking about my life without you in it is impossible at this point, because we're entwined. Even if you weren't in my life anymore, it would be defined, in a way, by you _not_ being in it, if that makes any sense at all."

Ruth nodded, and said softly, "Yes. Perfect sense."

"And in answer to your question? If you were to suddenly disappear, I would likely hang on to my job as if it were a lifeline, my love. I would go back to the man who felt it was all there was, a man who would stay far too long to be of any use to anybody. Probably either die of old age seated at my desk, or behave badly in a dangerous situation and thus put paid to any speculation about whether I should be forcibly retired."

He felt Ruth sigh deeply, and now he turned her shoulders so that he could look at her. One tear had fallen, and she wiped it quickly away, unable to meet his eyes. He spoke quickly, "No, no, my Ruth. Oh, that sounds sad to you, doesn't it? No, it's not. It's what I've known for years, until very recently. Until you."

"But Harry, you're worth so much more than that. Your heart is enormous, full of love." Ruth reached her hand up to stroke his cheek, "Such tenderness, passion, sweetness in you. You hide it well, but it comes through anyway. I've always seen it. It's who you are, your essence, and you would push that away?"

He looked tenderly at her. "Ah, my Ruth. I've said you see the best in me, but you don't know how few others do." Smiling, he said, "Don't you know? I'm the cold bastard, the heartless son-of-a-bitch who makes decisions that force good people to walk into danger, the man who will die with his teeth clenched and his boots on. _That_ man."

"They don't know you, Harry." She put her arms around him. "They don't know about your soft underbelly."

He gave a low laugh. "And for God's sake, don't tell them." He whispered to her, "So you're saying I'm a fraud, Ruth?"

She smiled up at him. "I'm saying you're a complex, multifaceted man. There are many sides to you."

"And you love them all?"

"Yes. Every one of them. The tender and the infuriating."

He leant down and kissed her. "Then don't ever leave me, my Ruth."

"Done." They watched the flames as they danced and licked at the brick fireplace. Both worked at being simply in the moment. Unfortunately, it was with limited success, as their minds turned again to the ferry ride Ruth would take when this night was almost over. Ruth pushed the thought away, determined to be cheerful.

She sat up to take a sip of her tea, and pulled a face. "Gone cold." She kissed Harry gently and said with a sweet smile, "Cripes, we talk a lot. Can't even manage to finish a decent cup of tea."

Harry handed her his cup as well and said, sadly, "And we didn't solve a bloody thing, did we?"

Ruth sat up straight. "Yes, we did. We determined that if I left you, you would be a miserable, sodding mess. And then we determined that I would never leave you. We solved quite a lot, actually." She stood up, taking her cup and Harry's with her to the kitchen.

Harry looked after her, smiling. "Ah, good, then. Brilliant. Glad we got that sorted out." As she steeped fresh tea for them, he sat, completely in love, and still wondering how he would let her go tonight.

* * *

Harry was baffled. "Why would she run in front of a train? She had everything to live for."

Ruth was still sniffling, as the credits for _The Red Shoes_ ran across the screen. "Because she was so conflicted, between her desire to dance, wanting to be with Julian, and needing to fulfil her promise to Lermontov. She couldn't do them all, could she?"

Raising his eyebrows, Harry asked, "So she does none of them? That's not a choice. That's cowardice."

Dabbing her eyes, Ruth said, "No, it's romantic."

"Broken and bloody on the railroad tracks. Julian distraught. Lermontov with a theatre full of paying customers and no lead dancer. All that time training for the ballet, for naught. Romantic?" Harry pulled out _The Gold Rush_ and walked toward the television.

Ruth sniffed again, but Harry could see she was trying not to laugh. She managed to stifle it, and said, gruffly, "I take back everything I said about your soft underbelly."

"Thank God for that." He walked back to her, remote in hand. "Now for a _real_ film." Sitting next to her, he put his bare feet up on the table in front of him after moving the paper trays that held the remains of the fish and chips. "Chaplin, Alaska, blizzards, grizzly bears, dance hall girls, and a happy ending."

His smug look was too much for her, and now she did laugh. "Men and women are simply at opposite poles. How on Earth does the human race survive?"

Harry put his arms around her, pulling her toward him and kissing her on the neck. "Because no matter how little we agree on the nature of films, we almost _always_ agree on the nature of making love."

Ruth pretended to still be angry, "And maybe your sour opinions have put me right out of the mood." She started to push him away, but Harry was making her laugh, and she couldn't keep it up.

"Mmmm, you're not very often out of the mood, my Ruth," Harry said, in her favourite low, soft voice, right at her ear. "We're not together enough for either of us to get properly out of the mood." They were nearly lying down on the sofa now, but Ruth's elbow was uncomfortably near his bruise, and Harry suspected there wasn't a lot of comfort to be had on this particular piece of furniture. He eased himself into a standing position, and took her hand. "I think I fancy a nap."

Ruth looked up at him, narrowing her eyes. "I think I know precisely what you fancy, Sir Harry."

"And didn't you say earlier that you would always be my Lady Ruth?" He pulled her up, gently, and took her in his arms.

Ruth put her lips on his chest, just above the buttons of his shirt, and kissed him. Her voice was as low as his. "I'm not feeling very much like a lady right now, as it turns out."

Harry turned toward the stairs. "Ah, I have just the place for you. Follow me, please."

* * *

The alarm on Harry's watch went off at 7:00 p.m., and they both awakened slowly. Ruth put her head on Harry's shoulder, her eyes still partially closed. "Oh, Harry, all this luscious sleep! We've barely seen the light of day."

Harry curled his arm around her. "We needed it. And we won't likely be sleeping tonight ... " He stopped, not wanting to think about tonight. "Are you hungry for dinner?"

Ruth held him tighter. "No, not just yet. I want to stay right here a little longer. I'm very happy."

Harry closed his eyes again. "Then here we stay, my love."

They lay together, lost in their thoughts, luxuriating in the feel of the other's skin, the warmth that settled around them and the peace they found together.

Finally, Ruth spoke. "I have another question, Harry."

He smiled, "That doesn't surprise me, Ruth."

"I want you to know that I'm prepared for it to take a long time to get me cleared and back to England. I know it's not easy, and I know you're doing everything you can, but in order for me to be content with my life, it has to be my life, yes? Not just marking time until something else happens?"

Harry sighed. "Yes, I know." He had been waiting for this, and it frightened him, because he thought if Ruth really committed to a life in Paris, he wouldn't be there. He would remain separate from her somehow, a part of the past from which she was moving away.

She must have felt what he was thinking, even though he didn't say it. "You're my life, Harry. No matter where I am. Always know that." It was still early evening, and the sun was low in the sky. She turned so she could see his eyes. She saw the sadness there, and reached her hand up to hold his cheek. "Always."

He folded her into his arms, holding her tightly. "I know that. And I know that I'm asking you to stand in two worlds, Ruth. You can't do that forever. It's unreasonable to think you can."

"I will, for as long as it takes, Harry." She sighed. "But right now, that other life, the one in Paris, has no colour, no depth, and it's what I'm going back to tonight. It makes it so hard to leave you, to leave this..." She felt the tears starting, but she didn't want to cry anymore. Not while she was holding him, not when she should be grateful that she could feel him under her fingertips. "When I'm with you there's light, and joy, and passion in me, and then I simply wait until it happens again. It's like a half-life of sorts."

Sighing, she said, "Oh, I'm content there, I have a good friend in Isabelle, and I'm in Paris, for God's sake, how bad could it be?" She heard Tom in her head again. "We're so lucky, Harry, to have each other, to have this love, and I suppose it's the human condition to want more and more." She turned and looked at him again. "Is any of this making any sense?"

Harry stroked her hair, his eyes soft with love. "Yes, my Ruth. I know what you're saying, and I've felt it. The only thing that keeps me from being in exactly the same position is an extremely compelling job. And still I can't wait to get on the phone with you every night." He sat up a bit so he could see her better. "I understand the problem, I just don't know the answer."

Ruth continued, "So, my question is, after we get married, will it still be like this? Will I be kissing my husband goodbye in Dover? Will your wife travel across the channel, away from the man she loves ... will we ... " Now, she couldn't stop the tears, and Ruth turned back on to his chest. "I know I'm being ungrateful, I should be glad we have the time we do have ... but, God, Harry ... I want to wake up with you, and watch films we don't agree on, and read to you in French, and cuddle the animals, and ... I want _this_." She took a ragged breath, and rolled over on her back, her eyes on the ceiling. "And I'm whining, and complaining, and I was _never_ going to."

Harry saw a tear roll down her cheek, and spread its heat into her pillow. Exactly the same pillow that held the tear he had dropped there, and he saw their pain mingle and blend right before his eyes.

He reached out and she moved into his arms, pressing her head into his warm, strong shoulder. He buried his face in her hair, and they both cried, not with sound or passion, just the silent slipping of tears on skin, and cotton, and hair, until they couldn't tell which ones belonged to Harry and which to Ruth.

* * *

Tom was waiting for them, exactly as planned, at 3:30 a.m. The mist was thick, and it felt appropriate somehow, as if they had stepped into the final scene of _Casablanca_. But instead of an airport, they were saying goodbye in Dover, as the bleat of the ferry horn bounced off of the heavy, saturated air.

Ruth would catch the early train from Calais to Paris. Harry would drive straight to the Grid, knowing that after two days away there would be plenty of work waiting on his desk.

They both felt it, but couldn't name it. Something ominous, a supplementary pain added to their usual goodbye. They held each other more tightly, and for longer, until the moisture from the air left a slight sheen on their skin, separate from the tears that Ruth couldn't contain.

"I'll call you tonight?" Harry touched her face with his leather glove, and then removed it, preferring the cold of her skin to the warmth of the lining. He couldn't stop kissing her, on her eyes, her cheeks, her lips, which were full with the emotion she was feeling.

"Yes. Tonight. Anytime." Ruth straightened the knot on the tie she had picked out for his day at work, the green one. She looked in his eyes, and then put her hand up and held his face, as another tear made its way down her cheek. "Oh, Harry, I love you so much. This has been wonderful, being here with you." She kissed him lightly, her lips quivering, "I want forever, but this is enough for now. I'm sorry I've been so sad, I don't know what it is. I just want there to be enough time, that's all. There's not enough time."

Harry pulled her to him, tightly, and whispered. "We'll make the time, my Ruth." Once more, he kissed her, a long, lingering kiss, and against her lips he said, "I love you, so completely. We'll do this again, I promise you. Soon." The ferry horn sounded again, and still he held her. He could see Tom, off to the side, point to his watch, and finally, Harry whispered, "You need to go."

She stepped back and took a deep breath. "I love you, Harry. Call me tonight, yes?"

He let her go. "I love you, Ruth. Yes, tonight."

Ruth turned and within seconds, disappeared into the fog with Tom. Harry couldn't even see the terminal from where he was, much less the ferry or the water. But he stood in the cold for a long time, until he heard the horn sound again, and then he heard the engines change pitch.

It wasn't until the sound had completely died away that Harry wiped his tears and got into his car. He turned out to the main highway and made his way back to London and to the Grid.


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT**

* * *

"_Sixty-six people, predominately girls under the age of ten, have been killed by an airstrike by Israeli fighter jets on the Gaza Strip this morning. Israel has expressed its deep regret for the civilian casualties, but has emphasised that the real targets of its raid were planning lethal attacks on settlements in Northern Israel ..."_

Harry stood with Adam on the Grid and watched the BBC News with a mixture of horror and fear at what would come after this atrocity. He had managed to make a start at clearing off his desk since arriving at 5:20 a.m., and now he listened, trying to regain the peace and stillness he'd felt for the last two days in Ruth's arms. She would be in Paris by now, at the bookshop, and he was back in the middle of yet another crisis.

If Ruth had still been here on the Grid this morning, she would have seen the sadness in his eyes. A new sadness, not directly connected to the little girls that died in the bombing attack, which was, of course, something impossibly sad and incomprehensible.

This was different, a melancholy look which rose from deep within Harry's heart, a feeling of loss brought on by the memory of Ruth's face in the mist, the vision of her walking away. No one else noticed, because no one else knew Harry the way Ruth did. She was the only one who would have seen it, recognised it. But Ruth wasn't here, seeing every movement, knowing him completely.

After the BBC broadcast concluded with an interview of Darius Bakhshi , Harry turned to Adam. "There are going to be consequences," he said. Just then, Malcolm came through the pods, and Harry motioned to him with his head. "Malcolm. A word, if I may?"

Malcolm followed Harry into his office and closed the door behind him. "Yes, Harry?" Harry came around his desk and sat next to him in a chair against the window.

"The bug that was found in my office, the Yalta bug?" Malcolm nodded as Harry continued, "Have you finished your look at it?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Pretty standard issue, no extravagant bells and whistles. Why do you ask?"

Harry wasn't looking forward to the consequences of his next statement. "I probably haven't been as careful as I should have been in this office about my conversations with a particular friend. On my mobile." Malcolm rolled his eyes and sighed, exactly the reaction Harry expected. "I wondered how much it could pick up, how long it had been here, that sort of thing."

Malcolm sniffed. "Harry, contrary to your beliefs, we don't have rules just so that you can break them. We discussed this. Inside this building, only use her call sign, Lady Lazarus, or LL, or whatever works best for you, but neither of her names, for God's sake. You didn't use her name, did you?"

Harry's silence told him all he needed to know. Malcolm shook his head. "And the place? Where she is?"

Harry looked up, his eyes darting. "I don't think so. I can't remember. I was just wondering if there was any way to know ... what ... it heard ... "

"Harry, it's not a bloody recorder, it's a wire. It transmits, it doesn't record. I've recommended a recorder for your office for years, but I recall you saying you didn't need one. Or words to that effect, and not such nice words, if memory serves."

Harry rubbed his forehead. "So there's no way to know what Yalta heard?"

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "Well, I suppose we could put in a friendly call to Juliet Shaw and ask her, but short of that, no."

"And we're certain my office is clean now, yes?"

Malcolm nodded. "One can never say without a doubt, but yes, I believe so. What with Special Branch crawling through here, and our people, I would say you can be as sure as is humanly possible." Malcolm added, quietly, "But no one expected that Ros would be the one planting the bug, Harry. I could have just now put one under this chair."

Harry smiled. "If you turn on us, I think I'd have to simply call it a day, Malcolm." He put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I've been sloppy, and I'm sincerely regretting it right now. I apologise for any disrespect you've felt from me about the need for protocol. Please look at your notes from your debrief with Ros, and get me the dates the bug was in place, would you?"

Both men stood, and Malcolm moved toward the door. Harry sat at his desk and said, quietly, "And Malcolm?" He looked up. "Get me a recorder for my office."

As Malcolm closed the door behind him, Harry heard him mutter, "Well, it's about bloody time."

Harry needed to hear Ruth's voice. He opened his mobile to call her, and then closed it again. He couldn't bring himself to trust the safety of his office completely, so he stood, thinking the safest place would be his car in the garage below. He needed just a quick call to say hello, to ease his mind. But as he started for the door, the desk phone rang. Harry sat back down and picked it up. "Yes."

"How are you?" It was Darius Bakhshi.

Harry, surprised, said, "I saw you on television."

"How did I look?"

"Like any diplomat practiced in the art of double standards." They talked for a short time about the airstrike on the Gaza school, and then Darius said something that made Harry's blood run cold. He said that Israel might not be the one to pay the price for the attack, and ended with the cryptic phrase, "I have happy memories of London."

From that point, Harry was focused on finding out if there was to be a revenge attack on London, which is what he suspected Darius was trying to say to him. He felt he needed to take full advantage of the warning he had been given, and soon they determined through intelligence that the target might be a British school. His call to Ruth wasn't forgotten, but he was forced to postpone it.

And then, a call from the British Embassy in Islamabad, Pakistan. A body had been found, and it looked to be Zaf's, wrapped in a desecrated Union flag and dropped there. An autopsy would be done, and they would have the report the next day.

Finally, at around 5:30 p.m., Harry found a moment to make the trip down to the car park. Ruth's phone rang three times and then she answered. "It's so good to hear your voice, Ruth." He felt a wave of relief, and had to tell her right away what was worrying him. "I need to tell you something. I've wanted to tell you all day, but ... well, you know. Crisis after crisis."

Ruth was on the Metro, and she had barely heard her phone ring as it was. She was straining to hear him, but she still noticed something odd in his voice. "What, Harry? You sound worried."

"I should have told you sooner, but Ros planted a bug in my office, and I don't know how long it was there, or what they could have heard, but I want you to be careful, will you?" He realised he might scare her if he was too serious, and after all, there was no real evidence that she was in danger, so he tried to lighten his tone. "Just don't get into any cars with strangers, yes?"

She only heard every fourth or fifth word, but she heard clearly that he was making a sort of joke at the end, and she smiled. Harry was good at so many things, but jokes weren't really one of them. "No cars with strangers, Harry, I promise." She put her finger tightly on her other ear so she could hear him more clearly. She always felt self-conscious talking on her mobile when others were close by, so she kept her voice down. "Harry? I'm on the Metro, can you call me later? When I'm in my flat, and can hear you better?"

He raised his voice to be sure she heard him. "Yes, I will. I have to go back to a meeting anyway. You must be exhausted. I know I am. When did we sleep last? Yesterday afternoon, I think?"

Her voice was soft, but he could still hear it on his end, even over the muffled noise of the rails. "It was so lovely being there with you. I'm tired, but I don't mind it, Harry."

"I know, I feel the same. I miss you already, my love. We'll talk later. I'll call when I'm on my way home." He paused, and then, "I love you, Ruth."

"I love you, too, Harry."

When she got home, she waited for quite awhile, but her mobile didn't ring. Harry did everything he could to get out quickly, but between the arrangements for the return of Zaf's body, security for the upcoming visit of the Argentinean President, and the continuing intel about the schools that might be attacked, it took him longer than he anticipated.

As she'd told Harry, Ruth was tired, and wanted to take a quick shower before falling into bed. She reached into her carry-all, still unpacked from her trip to London, and her hand encountered something hard, square. She pulled it out and smiled. A bar of sandalwood soap with a post-it note attached that said simply, "Think of me."

She went to the dresser and pulled out his shirt. Then she rubbed the soap lightly across the collar, and inhaled the lovely aroma. Ruth sat on the bed with her eyes closed and the shirt covering her face for a few long minutes. She was thinking of their two days together, and wondering, if she had him every day, would she take him for granted? She couldn't imagine she ever would.

When Harry did finally get the chance to ring her, she was in the shower. He left her a message, wishing her sweet dreams and telling her again that he loved her. She saw the message and listened to it before she went to bed. Tonight she wore his shirt to sleep.

At a little after 2:00 a.m., there was a soft knock at her door. Still partially lost in a dream of him,

Ruth looked sleepily at the clock, and her heart filled. _Harry. He'd come to surprise her. It could only be him at this hour._ She hurriedly pulled on a pair of jeans under his shirt. She opened the door, groggy, smiling.

The light in the hall must have burnt out, she thought. _Must ring the manager_.

And the last thing Ruth was aware of was the sting of a pinprick in her neck, as the world spun and then went black.

* * *

Next morning, Harry briefed the rest of the team in the meeting room. "Zaf's body will arrive at Northolt. His family have requested that we stay away, so we'll respect that."

"He was taken by a group calling itself the Redbacks," Adam said. "They operate by extracting information for a primary client and then selling on down the food chain."

"As far as Pakistan?" Connie asked.

"Well, we think he was drugged and taken out of the country, but the big question is what he might have revealed about us under torture."

Connie opened a file folder. "The autopsy threw up an interesting detail. At some point, one of his guards must have given him a soft drink in a can. He used the ring pull to scratch something on his foot."

Connie squinted, and she could just make out what it was in the autopsy photo. Puzzled, she said, "L.V. two something."

* * *

Ruth awakened in the corner of a very small room containing a table, two chairs, and nothing else. She was barefoot, cold and hungry. Her left hand was just in front of her, and it looked strange, empty. Then she remembered that her ring and necklace were still on the counter in the bathroom at her flat, where she had left them while she showered. She wore only her jeans and Harry's shirt.

She sat up, shaky and disoriented, her muscles sore from the hours on the hard, cold floor. There was a bright overhead light, and she squinted against it, looking around her. Things were still spinning a bit, so she took her time. When she felt strong enough, she stood, and holding on to the wall for support, she made her way to a large metal door, the only one in the room.

Ruth knocked on it, at first softly, and then harder. "Hello?" She felt tears beginning to form, and swallowed them. This was clearly not a time to be fragile, so she called upon all of her reserves of strength. She rubbed her neck, feeling the soreness there, and tried to remember exactly what had happened.

A small window, too high up to look through, showed morning light, and Ruth suspected she had been unconscious for some time. What was less clear was _where_ she was. Was it possible she wasn't still in Paris? She could be anywhere, for all she could see.

She moved one of the chairs over to the window, and standing on it, there was nothing but a hazy brick wall visible through the bars. The panes of glass were thick and dirty, and the window looked to be painted shut.

Once more, Ruth went to the door, and called out, louder, "Hello? Is someone there?" She pounded a while longer, and then gave up. She moved the chair back to the table and sat, her knees pulled up to her chin, shivering slightly from the cold, but shaking more from the hard ball of fear that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.

Ruth heard keys in the lock at the door. The door opened, and in walked Juliet Shaw.

"Hello, Ruth."

Ruth didn't speak. She couldn't. Her terror now turned her to ice. Although she pushed it away immediately, the only thought in her head was Harry's description of Juliet plunging the needle into Ros' neck.

Juliet was wearing a business suit, and might as well have just stepped out of a meeting in Harry's office. She used the same officious tone, and had the same aristocratic bearing that Ruth had seen countless times on the Grid. But what caught Ruth's attention most sharply was that Juliet was pacing around the small room on two very able legs.

Juliet's voice was sarcastic, lilting. "Imagine my surprise, Ruth, when a photo of Sophie Persan was put in front of me." She turned, her head tilted ominously, and walked toward Ruth. "I knew it couldn't be you." Juliet stopped, put both hands on the table in front of her and leant forward just a little, "Because you're _dead_."

The mixture of hatred, anger and fear Ruth was feeling turned her face into a mask. The natural downturn of her mouth was now etched there, her eyes like molten steel on Juliet.

Juliet, on the other hand, was all sweetness. "I did tell Harry not to let the opportunity pass him by. I just didn't tell him whose opportunity it was." Her eyes were locked on Ruth's. "Poor Harry. I tell him you're in love with him, and what does he do? He promptly falls in love with you. Simple as moving chess pieces." She looked at Ruth in mock sympathy. "You don't think he got that idea all on his own, do you?"

Ruth's breath left her, but not due to any doubt of Harry. Juliet could never touch their love, no matter how much heavy-handed, transparently evil psychology she tried to use on Ruth. It was the "chess pieces" reference that hit Ruth so hard. The fact that all along, it was a plan. That Juliet had been scheming, trying to use her, all those months ago.

Juliet was still talking, now pacing again. "Unfortunately, we didn't count on that miserable ferret Oliver Mace deciding to use you first." She leant against the wall and turned to Ruth. "And then, you bloody _died_. What a phenomenal waste _that_ was. You're a very valuable commodity, Ruth. In bed with Harry Pearce? Pillow talk?" She laughed, but Ruth heard no joy in it. "I thought for a time I might get there again, but Harry has always been unreasonably suspicious of my motives."

Juliet moved under the small window, high in the wall. "But _you_. Innocent, naive, and so sweet. When he finally told me he was in love with you, I would have laughed, if I hadn't had an acting job to do. He'll tell you anything, won't he?" She turned to Ruth, her eyes like cut glass. "And he has, hasn't he?"

Ruth stared her down, refusing to speak. Juliet pulled the second chair from the other side of the table and set it next to Ruth's. She sat down, close to her, and leant in, putting her arm around Ruth's shoulder. Just like two friends, having a chat, except that Ruth's eyes remained riveted on the wall in front of her. Juliet whispered to her, her voice cold, calculating.

"You will talk, Ruth. I killed Ros because she made me angry. I let Harry live because we need him where he is. But _you_," she moved closer, and Ruth felt the movement of breath in her hair, "_You_ we will sell on, just as we did Zaf. And the people who will buy you will not be nearly as nice as we are. There's been some interest, as it seems they already know about you." Juliet's voice rose, and she frowned up at the brightness of the light overhead. "Weren't you supposed to be in exile, thought to be dead? How _did_ they know about you? Not really very good at this spying business, are you, Ruth?"

Not expecting an answer, Juliet continued. "So at this point in time, believe me, we're actually protecting you from something much, much worse. And, of course, keeping them from getting you for free, which would not be in our best interests. If you decide to work with us, we'll continue to protect you from them, and you'll simply go on with your double life as it is now. Sleep in your dear Harry's bed and listen to his ramblings, and then tell us what he says. Simple. And safe."

Ruth turned to her now, and their faces were just inches apart. She could smell Juliet's very expensive perfume, French of course, and it nearly turned her stomach. With the venom evident in her voice, Ruth whispered just one word.

"_Never_."

Silently, Juliet stood and moved the chair back to its place. She walked to the steel door and knocked once, her eyes still on Ruth. When it opened, she stepped into the doorway. Before she closed the door Juliet said, casually, lightly, "We'll see about that."

The door clanged shut, and echoed through the room. Ruth leant forward and put her arms on the table in front of her, and now she allowed her breath to come in the short bursts demanded by the panic she had been holding inside. One tear slipped out, then another, until they fell on the table and spread into the porous wood.

_It will never end. I will never be safe. Anywhere_. Ruth looked down at her hands, and then to her shirt. Harry's shirt, that still smelled like sandalwood. Like him.

She could almost see the target painted there.

* * *

Adam burst into Harry's office. Harry had been expecting him, but he was more distraught than he'd seen him in a long while. Adam was shouting, "I can't believe they've taken Jo!"

"Adam! Calm down."

They both knew who had taken her. The Redbacks. The ones who had tortured Zaf. And now they knew so much more about them. Professional torturers who extract information, probably for Al Qaeda's British affiliates, and then they either kill, or trade agents on, for large sums of money. They had a network all over the world, and no security services were safe from them.

As Harry stood watching Adam pace his office, he tried to erase his memory of the photos of Zaf's body. He tried even harder to keep himself from putting Jo in that picture. And apart from the personal aspects of the torture and loss of another friend and colleague, it would be catastrophic for MI5's operations if Jo were to tell what she knew.

Adam took a deep breath, but couldn't stop his pacing. "They broke in through the back. Everything else was untouched. We've got hours to find her, otherwise she's lost."

"Yes." Harry was just as upset as Adam, but as usual, he needed to be the one to keep his head. He cared deeply for Jo, but he didn't have room for one more thing on his plate at the moment. "We also have a school under threat, and some bloody 'Carlos the Jackal' wannabe on the loose." In his head, Harry repeated his mantra. _The scale can't tip toward just one person. _Even if it's Jo.

Adam moved closer to Harry and stood in front of him, challenging him. "_Every_ time. Every time we offer our people up as a sacrifice. Well, not this time, Harry. Not _this_ time!"

"You don't even know where to start." Harry stood his ground and held Adam's eyes, unblinking.

"Wrong. We've got Hogan. He has a link to them, and he can do a deal without them even knowing it's us behind it. Put a tracker on the money. We go in, we take these bastards out. All our security's compromised anyway, but we don't need to make that argument here. We get Jo back." There was fire in Adam's eyes, just inches from Harry's. "No debate."

Harry thought it through. It was good plan, as long as the Redbacks didn't know it was the British Government that was buying their own agent back. Adam was no good to him until this was resolved anyway, and Harry knew that whether he said yes or no, Adam would go. Finally, he gave Adam a minuscule nod, and one directive. "Nobody knows."

"I'll need Malcolm to sort some trackers for the money."

Harry needed to keep this as quiet as possible. "He mustn't know the money's for Jo. He must think you're paying for information about Zaf." Adam nodded, and started to leave Harry's office.

"And Adam. " Harry stopped him at the door. "You're on your own. If you take too long, I'll haul you back in."

Unfortunately, even that wasn't possible. It turned out that Hogan was not only working _with_ the Redbacks, he was working _for_ them. Adam found Jo, but he found her by being put in the same cell with her. And in fact, Jo had only been bait for them to get the bigger prize, MI5's senior officer, Adam Carter. He had walked right into their trap.

* * *

Aside from the discomfort of the earlier conversation with Juliet, Ruth wasn't being treated badly. There was a woman named Magritte who had been kind to her, and had brought her breakfast and coffee. She'd walked her down the hall and allowed her to wash her face and brush her hair. Ruth was cold, so Magritte had given her a sweater, and some socks to wear.

Ruth knew precisely why. There needed to be someone here whom Ruth would trust, someone who would be able to gain her confidence. They knew Ruth wasn't a field officer, that she wasn't as hardened as Ros, not as skilled at this sort of thing. If they were to get her to go back to Harry, to be a mole, there needed to be someone with whom Ruth would talk, someone who seemed human. It was classic tradecraft, and Ruth didn't care. It made her feel better, less scared. It allowed her to think. It gave her time to plan.

As she sat across from Magritte, Ruth's mind was working on the puzzle. She had already determined that the only way she would get out of this was to pretend that she would, in fact, inform on Harry. Her earlier "never" to Juliet, she realised now, was nothing more than bravado, and held no weight behind it. The only card Ruth had to play was her relationship with Harry, and as long as they thought there was a chance she would do as they asked, they wouldn't sell her on.

But why would they think Ruth would even consider informing on Harry? Wouldn't they know that she would simply say yes to get away? The only answer was that they had no idea what was in her heart. Juliet had tipped her hand a bit without knowing it. If Juliet thought she had orchestrated Ruth and Harry's relationship, then she might believe that Ruth was not really in love with Harry.

Perhaps because Juliet had never truly been in love herself, she didn't think a love existed that was above being an "opportunity." And if that were true, Juliet may think Ruth was just that kind of opportunist, someone who would pretend to love the boss in order to get ahead. A piece of the puzzle fell into place, and Ruth focused again on the woman across from her.

Magritte had been the one who had visited _l'Alcove_. She was chatting about the bookshop, and about her impression of Isabelle, and Ruth answered her in French, which Magritte seemed to like. They talked of Paris and of London, but not of the work they did. They ate lunch together, after which Magritte got Ruth some shoes, and they went outside to a small, enclosed courtyard. It offered no information about their location, but it did have a tiny patch of sunshine and warmth, and Ruth was grateful for it.

They were each giving a performance. Ruth could tell that Magritte was not pleased with this particular assignment, but she seemed a determined woman, and Ruth imagined she was very passionate about their cause, whatever it was. Now she wished she had asked Harry more questions about the people who had turned Ros, but she had a sense that Magritte was more than familiar with the whole affair, and might have even been Ros' contact.

But it was a dance, and Ruth knew that. If she capitulated too quickly, it wouldn't be believable. If she waited too long, they would lose patience and simply discard her. She may not have been a field officer, but she had watched from the Grid, and she had learned. So she peppered her conversation with a sort of discontent, an irritation, about her life in Paris. About her boredom, of missing London, and one fleeting remark about the "others" who had excitement in their lives.

Harry had let slip once, the "spaniel" remark that Juliet had made. He'd said it in passing, and they'd laughed at Juliet's impression of Ruth, but now, Ruth was very glad to know the type of person Juliet thought she was. An obedient sort, a pleaser, one who wanted to be liked. That sort of person would be easier to turn, and Ruth began to warm to her "character," the one she was playing. She knew Juliet was watching or listening somewhere. She tried to imagine the curl of Juliet's brightly-painted lips as she felt Ruth moving closer and closer to betraying Harry.

And underneath her fear, her performance, her planning, Ruth knew that her life was undeniably altered. As she talked with Magritte, as she smiled tentatively at the woman across from her, she grieved the loss of it bitterly. What could be her future? Certainly no longer in Paris or London. Deeper in exile, farther from him? Would he come with her? Could she even hope for that?

She wondered if he knew yet. As far as she could tell, it was early afternoon, but where was she? She could have gone across oceans in the night, drugged and unaware, but she thought not. Time was an issue. Magritte had spent nearly the entire day with her, and Ruth knew why.

Another piece of the puzzle. She remembered what Harry said to her in their phone conversation yesterday, in the parts that she could hear clearly on the Metro. He'd said that Ros had placed a bug in his office. So they must have some idea how often Harry called her. And they must know if he doesn't reach her tonight, he'll be suspicious. They would either need to let her talk to him, to reassure him that she was all right, or she would need to convince them that she was ready to start now to work for them.

Finally, Magritte left her alone. Ruth sat at the table, exhausted, knowing that a camera would still be on her. She played the spaniel, soft, sweet, no sharp edges anywhere. She laid her head on the table and closed her eyes, sighing, bored, as if to sleep.

Her heart ached. For him. For his pain, as well as her own. For their summer wedding, for their dream of a normal life, for films, and laughter, and making love. For their future, which seemed to have evaporated in this small room. She moved her arms up under her head, making a pillow for the camera, but really it was to catch her tears in the sweet-smelling cotton of Harry's shirt.

* * *

In another cell, in London, Adam immediately saw that Jo wasn't the same person he'd talked with yesterday. He quickly realised that she hadn't just been questioned, she'd been repeatedly assaulted. Adam felt powerless, unable to comfort her. "I can't say anything, can I?" Jo shook her head, numb. "No, no, you can't."

She talked to him about her father, and about the birds they used to watch together in their yard. And she told him about the injured ones who needed to be killed so that they wouldn't suffer anymore. Adam knew exactly what she was asking of him.

"I won't be tortured, Adam. They're going to use electricity, they took me to the room. And then I'll be passed on, to a new group, to be raped and tortured again. I know my fate, Adam. We know from Zaf what they do." She was pleading with him. "You owe this to me. You have to. It's not as if you haven't been trained for it."

Adam knew all he would have to do is break her delicate neck, so like a bird's really. A simple twist. But he couldn't do it. "No."

The tears were streaking Jo's face now. "Then you're sentencing me to a terrible nightmare. What's happened is just a start, you know that. I'm scared, Adam, I'm so scared. I'll give up the names of others, and then they'll have to go through this too, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I have names, Adam. This isn't just about us. Help me. You have to help me."

In the end, Special Forces made it in time. Adam and Jo were rescued. He held Jo's hand and she was put on a stretcher and taken out of the door that had held her in this horrible place. They were talking in those last moments about meeting when she was better, somewhere lovely, like Primrose Hill. Adam released her hand, but something was now in his mind, something that wouldn't let go of him, something he couldn't quite pin down.

Jo was wheeled down the corridor and was safe now. He finished up with the Special Forces officers, making certain that the Redback torturers were secured and on their way to interrogation, and then he made his way back to the Grid.

He would go home soon, but for now, he wanted to be sure his report was filed and there was no way those animals could get away with what they'd done to Jo. As he sat at his desk, he thought about his last words with her, and suddenly, it came to him. _Primrose Hill_.

"Oh, my God." Now he knew what Zaf was trying to tell him, and only him, because he was the only one who would know. LV2.

And Adam knew that another of Harry's officers may still be in trouble. It wasn't over yet. He stood and walked directly to Harry's office.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE**

* * *

Harry picked up his mobile to call Ruth. From now on he promised himself that he would follow the rules. He would call her Lady Lazarus. She would know, of course, that she had been named after the man in the New Testament who had risen from the dead at Jesus' hand, but the "Lady" would hold a meaning they hadn't even known when Malcolm had given her the call sign before she left for Paris.

It was only a feeling that Harry had, but something wasn't right, and it had to do with Ruth. He wanted very much to see her again, to see her eyes and know that she was well. But his "spy sense" was all muddled with the attempt on the life of the Argentinean President, the threat of the attack on the London school, and Jo's abduction. It was as if he'd been getting too much interference, and all it left him with was a nagging doubt, an amorphous worry, a kind of white noise in his usually sensitive personal radar.

But all that was over now, the complicated game of pleasing the Argentines and the Americans, and saving the British school. Jo and Adam were back and safe. Now he could call Ruth and ease his mind that she was all right. He would call her Lady Lazarus, she would laugh that wonderful laugh of hers, and the noise would go quiet in his head.

He opened his mobile and reached out a finger to press the button, just as he heard a knock at his door and looked up to see Adam standing there. He closed his phone and put off ringing her. _One more minute won't hurt._

"Come."

Harry thought Adam looked tired, very tired. No wonder, as he'd spent most of the day in a cell with Jo, wondering when the Redbacks were going to begin torturing him, or her, or both.

"How's Jo doing?"

Adam pulled a chair toward Harry's desk. "As well as can be expected. It was very bad, Harry. She was assaulted, raped, multiple times." Adam looked down at his hands, then continued, softly, "She asked me to kill her before I let them have her again. I told her no, but I almost did it." Adam rubbed his face roughly, and Harry heard the weariness in his officer's voice.

"Go home, Adam. Get some rest. It's over."

Adam looked up, and for the first time since he walked in, Harry saw the despair that was still in his eyes. "I'm afraid it may not be over, Harry." He took a deep breath. "When was the last time you heard from Ruth?"

The question hit Harry with the weight of a hammer to his chest. His years of training kept his face passive, but underneath that placid look, his whole body was rebelling, heart, lungs, nervous system.

"I talked with her last night. Why?"

The one thing Harry noticed was that Adam couldn't look him in the eyes. Adam's eyes darted around the room as he spoke, landing everywhere but on Harry.

"In the briefing, Connie told us that Zaf's autopsy showed that he had etched something into his foot? LV2? I was so worried about Jo at the time that it didn't register with me, but I remembered something just now."

Harry's anxiety level was rising. He tried to keep his voice even, but the pounding of his heart was making it difficult. "What?"

Now Adam met Harry's eyes. And what Harry saw there terrified him.

"When we were on Primrose Hill, the day before Ruth left? When Zaf and I walked back up to the bench? He said something to me, just a joke." Adam sighed, exhausted. "He said, 'Well, I know what their call signs should be. LV1 and LV2, Love One and Love Two.'"

Adam leant forward on Harry's desk, his face stricken. "Harry. I'm afraid Zaf may have said something about Ruth under torture, and he was trying to let us know, trying to absolve his guilt."

Harry was grasping at straws now. "Why would they ask about Ruth? How would they even know to ask?"

Adam shook his head, his voice soft, "You know how it works, Harry. They don't ask. They take you to a place where you just tell. Anything."

Harry's face drained of colour, and he could feel himself losing control. So, not only the danger of Yalta, but now the Redbacks as well. Harry had experienced his own death many times, the feeling of watching his life pass in front of him in pictures, vignettes. But now, he wasn't in danger himself, Ruth was. And he saw her. Moments, fragments of her, laughing, in Bath, sitting across from him, in his bed, watching _The Red Shoes_, crying, loving him with her eyes, walking away into the fog in Dover.

The rushing of his blood was now so loud in his ears that it forced all the sound from the room. He was still looking at Adam, but he was feeling himself drift almost out of his body. And the thought came to him that if Ruth were to get ill and die, or be in some horrible accident and die, he would be devastated, broken, heartsick. But if she were to die because of him, because of this job, if she were to die the way Jo had described, or the way Zaf had looked ...

They hadn't let Jo see the photos of Zaf's body, but Harry had seen them. He shook the memory away, not even able to fathom the idea of Ruth in their hands. As soon as he pushed the pictures of Zaf away, Jo's haunted eyes took their place. _What they do to women, oh God_. He felt nearly paralysed with horror, and regret, and fear.

_The scale can't tip toward just one person. _Yes, it can. It will. Now instead of fighting the vision of Jo, it was the vision of his Ruth. _No._ Harry couldn't live with that. He wouldn't want to.

"Harry?" Adam was still looking at him, and Harry knew he had to get a grip on himself. He either had to hand this over to Adam, or begin to function again. And as his senses returned, marginally, he realised that they first needed to find out where Ruth was, to get her to safety, and then they could go from there.

Adam saw the life return to Harry's eyes, and he was grateful for it. Harry said, "Get Malcolm. And come back here." Harry was picking up his mobile as Adam left his office.

First, Harry tried Sophie's mobile, which went immediately to voicemail. He left a message from William Arden, asking for a first edition copy of Ovid, and could she call him immediately with its availability? He knew that would get her to call him, that she would know it was urgent.

He pressed in another number and heard it ring, once, twice, three times, before hearing, "Bonjour. l'Alcove." He had hoped it would be Ruth's voice, but it was Isabelle.

He had to trust Malcolm, that his office was clean. There was no time to find ways around the things he needed to say. In any case, once they got her to safety, Ruth would need a new identity. "Isabelle. It's James. May I speak with Sophie?"

The surprise was evident in Isabelle's voice. It was the first time Harry had spoken to her since he first called so long ago asking for a place for Ruth.

"James! Mon dieu, how wonderful!" Then her voice fell, "Ah, Sophie will be so sad to have missed you. She's not here. She left a message on the machine. She is under the weather, and oh, she sounded terrible. A headache, she said." Isabelle paused. "But strange, you know? She sounded more as if she had a cold, a different sound to her voice, somehow."

Harry felt himself drifting again, and willed himself back. "What time was this, Isabelle? The message?"

Isabelle's tone changed slightly, as she heard Harry's urgency. "Yes, it was in the middle of the night, what did it say, 2:30 a.m. or so? I thought it strange somehow that she didn't wait until morning to see if the headache had gone away ..." Her voice trailed off as Harry interrupted her.

"Isabelle, I need you to do something for me. Sophie may be in danger. I need you to close up the shop and go to her flat to make sure she's there. Will you do that for me?" Harry's voice left no room for negotiation, and Isabelle heard that very clearly. "Someone will meet you there. A friend of mine. He will mention her name, and he will get you into her apartment. I want you to go, because I don't want to frighten her if she's simply lying there with a headache, yes?" He tried to soften his voice. "Will you do that, please?"

"Yes, James. Of course I will." She knew better than to ask questions, because she knew he would give her no answers and it would only waste time. As she shrugged on her coat, Isabelle was taken back many years, remembering her days with Pierre. She knew how to do this. She wrote down the number of Harry's mobile as he gave it to her and promised to call him the minute she knew anything.

Harry's next call was to Julien, a Six operative in Paris, one of the few he trusted. He gave him Ruth's address and asked him to meet Isabelle there and get her into the building and up into Ruth's apartment.

He sat back in his chair, shaking, his heart pounding, a knot in his stomach. _Oh, my Ruth. Not you._ Yalta. The Redbacks. Cold, lethal, uncompromising. _You are my outstanding officer. Do not be afraid. _Would anyone be there for her? For his Ruth?

And then Harry closed his eyes and prayed for the first time in as long as he could remember. He made a bargain with God. If they could get her safely out of this, he would remove her from danger, once and for all.

He'd been indulgent, he knew, and sloppy. His need for her had clouded his judgment. Calls, emails, visits, for God's sake. A lunch in the open air with ex-MI5 and ex-CIA? Travelling to England? Fish and chips, DVD shops, his house? He had wanted so much for them to have a life together that he'd forgotten everything he'd ever learned. What had he been thinking?

All he could think about now was getting her to somewhere safe. And safe meant away from him, away from MI5, from any connection to the Security Services. He knew, right now, without a doubt, that if he had to make that choice -- to have her safely away, but to never see her again, he would make it. To know that his Ruth, his love, the woman who owned his whole heart, was alive and out of danger, he would give her up for the rest of his life.

Adam came back in with Malcolm. The look Malcolm saw on his old friend's face made him take a sharp breath. "Harry. Any word?"

"She's not at work. Isabelle had a message about a headache at 2:30 in the morning. I have people going round to check on her." His voice was low, measured, but both Adam and Malcolm could see he was right on the edge.

They sat for a time, waiting. Any plans were futile until they knew where she was. So they waited, their minds racing, willing Harry's mobile to ring.

When it did, moments later, he pressed the button. "Yes. Yes. Thank you for your help, Isabelle. No, worrying won't help her. Call me if she contacts you, yes? You've done all you can. We'll let you know. Please hand the phone to Julien. Yes, I will, thank you again." There was a slight pause, and Harry's tone changed completely. "I'll need to know anything you find out, Julien. We think it may be Redbacks. I'm sending Adam Carter. Yes, good idea."

Harry closed his mobile. "She's gone. No sign of a struggle, but the hall light was shattered. Six is starting an investigation."

For a moment, no one knew what to say. Then Harry spoke, more to himself than to the others in the room, "She's smart. She's very smart. She'll do what she can to buy us some time. If it's Yalta, she can talk to them, they'll want another mole, and she'll use that. If it's the Redbacks ... then ... "

Suddenly Harry looked up, as if he were seeing Adam and Malcolm for the first time. His eyes were darting back and forth between them, his breath was short, and they could see what an effort it was taking for him to remain in control. "I wanted you both here, because I need to ask things of you, and you're the only two who know about her, now that Zaf… now that Zaf is … " Harry put his hands on his desk and stood up, turning his back to them. They allowed him to get hold of himself, but when he spoke, he still had his back turned.

"I'm not going to be of any use to you on this one, because I'm so terrified for her that I can't think. Adam, I want to say two things to you." Now he turned to them, holding the back of his chair for support. "What you said Jo asked you? To kill her rather than let her face the same fate Zaf did?" Harry's voice choked, but he clenched his teeth against the emotion. "That applies here as well. I will not have her raped and tortured, not my Ruth." _And then you might as well come back here and kill me, too, because I don't know how I live with an order like this._

Harry managed to speak, but he couldn't control the shaking. Holding the chair helped, but his fingers were white where they gripped it. "Adam, the second thing. If you get her safely away from them, she will want to come here. She won't want to go further into exile, and she'll try to talk you out of it. I want you to tell her, privately, that I told you to take her to ... find more colours of blue." Harry looked directly at Adam, and his eyes were sharp with fear. "Repeat that to me, Adam."

Wanting to calm Harry, Adam repeated it, almost as if he were a child. "Find more colours of blue."

"Good. She'll know where that is. Tell her I'll meet her there, tell her whatever you have to, but you _get_ her there."

Now he turned to Malcolm. "She'll need papers. I don't want to know the name, but she would like ..." he started to falter, but took a deep breath and straightened again, " ... something from literature, she would like ... not obvious, someone obscure, clever ..." Harry's hand, the one not on the back of his chair, started to shake rather violently, and he moved it, gripping the chair again to still it.

Malcolm said softly, "I know. I'll choose a good one, Harry."

"She'll write, Malcolm. And she'll call. I won't write back, I won't talk with her, and I won't see her." He looked back and forth between them. "I have done this. I wanted her in Paris because I wanted her close to me. I wanted it for me. I've put her in the worst kind of danger. If we lose her, if we lose track of her the way we lost Zaf, if she's handed on, and on, and then a body shows up, wrapped in a flag ... " Harry pulled his chair toward him, and fell into it. "I can't ... I can't ... "

"We'll find her, Harry." Adam reached out to Harry's hand, which was still shaking, and put his over it. "We'll find her, and we'll get her to safety." Adam stood. "I'm going now. I have Julien's number. I'll take charge. We'll get her out, Harry. We got Jo out, and we'll get her out too."

Harry looked up at him, his face white. "You remember what I said? The two things I said."

"Yes, Harry. I'll remember." Adam walked out of Harry's office toward the pods. As he went down in the lift, on his way to Paris, he had only the vision of Harry and Malcolm, staring at each other with looks of infinite pain on their faces.

* * *

At that moment, Ruth was alone. Magritte had gotten her a mattress, pillow and blanket. She was drawing pictures on the ceiling, something her mother had taught her to do if she was afraid, when she was very little. When they were outside, they made animals out of the clouds, but inside, they drew pictures with their eyes. It was Harry's face she painted, smiling his best smile, the one that said he loved her and he always would.

She couldn't cry anymore. She didn't care if they saw her, but she didn't want to seem too weak. If they thought she would fall apart, they couldn't use her, they would lose confidence in her. So she thought of Harry smiling, and laughing, the way he did when she said something that surprised him. Ruth loved to surprise him.

They hadn't let her call him, and she hadn't pushed it. She didn't want to seem desperate, she didn't want them to think it mattered to her whether she heard his voice or not. They had to believe she was ready to betray him.

Tomorrow she would tell them yes, she would do it. She would tell them that she and Harry weren't really right for each other anyway, and she'd known it all along. She'd tell them she was afraid of the others who wanted her, and she wanted Magritte's protection. Whatever they wanted her to do, she would do. She would be Juliet's good little spaniel.

But the flaw in their plan was that sooner or later, they would have to leave her alone with Harry. She imagined herself taking off the wire and crushing it, and then throwing her arms around him and asking him to go with her, somewhere, anywhere, where they couldn't be reached.

She was so tired of all of it. Of exile, of missing him, of her double life, of feeling like she didn't exist. She was tired of riding the carousel, now turned away from him, leaving her in the dark. But as she drew Harry's face on the ceiling with her eyes, Sophie's words kept playing over in her head.

"_I know we will be together one day. There is no other outcome that makes sense, and whatever happens between this day and that one is simply the marching of time."_

Ruth couldn't know that as Harry sat in his office, staring, unseeing, he was remembering her letter, and the exact same words were running through his mind. Whether they were from his own heart, or her heart had sent them to him, wasn't important.


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER SIXTY**

* * *

The silver coffee service was laid out on the long mahogany table, set for three. Their dinner plates had been removed, and just the barest evidence of a lovely _Boeuf Bourguignon_ remained.

"This was never going to work, Juliet. We all knew it, didn't we?" Sholto reached out to take the handle on the pot and poured steaming cups of coffee for Juliet and Magritte as they watched. "The best we can do is get a high price for her. It will help to finance our operations here."

Juliet was in a huff. She raised her chin to him. "I think you're wrong. And I still think it can work."

Sholto put down the pot and leant back, looking at her. "It worries me, Juliet, your obsession with Harry Pearce. There are other areas where we need to focus our energies." He moved to pour some cream from the silver pitcher. "Personal grudges are generally not intelligent, nor effective, motivators in the long run. You need to keep sight of the big picture."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "He's not an obsession, or a personal grudge. He's an important man, a senior Intelligence officer, and we're very close to having him exactly where we want him."

Sholto could see he was getting nowhere with Juliet, so he turned to Magritte. "What is your impression? You've spent the most time with her."

Magritte sipped at her coffee. "I think you're right." She stole a look at Juliet, whom she didn't particularly like, to see her reaction. She received the predictable glare, and returned it. Magritte looked back at Sholto. "I can't quite believe her. She wants me to think she doesn't care, but her eyes give her away. There is a sadness ... a desperation ... something, when she talks of him. I believe she loves him very much." She put her coffee cup down. "Very much, indeed."

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Sholto called out, "Come in."

A young man, dressed entirely in black, walked through the door. "Sir, I have some news."

Sholto motioned him forward into the cavernous room. The man moved to the end of the long dining table. "Our people have been watching her apartment, as you requested. They have reported that there was first an older woman, and then a young man who went inside, and then others. MI6."

Sholto calmly took another sip from the china cup. "Thank you." He dismissed the man with his eyes, and once the door was firmly shut behind him, he turned to the two women at the table.

"We'll begin the negotiating process immediately." He turned to Juliet. "How much do you think we can get for her?"

* * *

The Grid was dark, and Harry was alone. After the intense activity of the last couple of days, everyone had gone home to their beds. There was only the soft whirring of the computers and the blue glow of the screens.

Harry hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he opened them again to stop the visions that wouldn't go away. He was exhausted, completely spent, and nearly incapable of stringing his thoughts together.

_Where is she now?_ He knew she was still alive, because his heart was still functioning. He could sense the thread that connected him to Ruth, stretched taut, but holding. If he put his hand on his chest, he could almost feel it linking his heart to hers, joining them. _Alive, yes, but where? And in what condition?_ His eyes were starting to close again, and he quickly opened them.

Unfortunately, his only frame of reference was his own memory. His own abductions, his own experience of torture. It was all too easy for him to simply put her lovely, open face there, looking uncomprehendingly into the depraved eyes of the people who would do this. Her delicate, pale wrists held by cold metal ... and he could imagine other things, worse things ...

Harry stood up, for the hundredth time tonight it seemed, to shake himself out of the memory. He walked over to the bottle of scotch and poured another, needing it, although he'd told himself no more after the last one. He didn't want to drink too much, he wanted to be available to Adam, such as he was. But he needed to dull the pain, the panic.

And as he poured it, he felt guilty. She couldn't do this, could she? Dull the pain and the panic? She had to face them, head on, unaided by the numbness he was seeking. He left the glass on the tray and walked reluctantly away from it. _If she can bear it, then I bloody well can._

As he fell back into his chair, he opened his mobile. Yes, still working. No new messages. He resisted the urge to call Adam. He would hear what he had heard the last five times he'd called him. No word yet. They were searching the traffic cameras for vehicles that were near Ruth's apartment yesterday morning. A Paris MI6 officer had gone missing last night as well, and they were coordinating the investigations, thinking it might also be the Redbacks.

Every minute that ticked by was another minute she was alone, probably cold, in pain, desperate, terrified. Harry felt the tears threaten again, and this time, unable to fight them any longer, he allowed them to come. He grieved for her, for himself, for them. He remembered her, just two days ago at his house, and every vision of her came with a sharp pain. He knew that he would never forget her. Could not forget her. Not as long as he lived. The best case scenario was that she would live apart from him in peace. The worst case ... well, that was unthinkable right now.

And behind Henry James Pearce, the one who was heartsick and terrified for the woman he loved, there lurked Harry Pearce, Head of Section D. It was inconceivable to him that even in this pain that beggared description, there was a part of him that was thinking of the job. Harry despised himself for the thoughts the other half of him had: _Would she talk? How would it affect their operations? Would she give names?_ And he thought, in misery, _Oh, she's better off without me. Run, Ruth. Run as far and as fast as you can from me_.

And again, her words played in his head. _I know we will be together one day. _He pushed them harshly from his mind. That was the dream, and this was stark reality. He needed to face it, he was dangerous for her. Much as he'd tried to love her, to keep her safe, he'd done more harm than good. At every turn, their love had been a bargaining chip for someone else, reduced to a negotiation tool, and Harry was unwilling to allow it to continue. He knew that his love for Ruth was purer and more complete than anything he'd ever known. Too pure for _this_ world, he thought.

Adam would tell Ruth that Harry would come to Cyprus, and he never would. She would reach out to him, not believing he could have abandoned her so completely, and he wouldn't reach back. She would move from hurt, to disappointment, to anger, to hatred. Then, though it pained him deeply, Harry hoped she would accept it and forget him. She would never know that this was the hardest thing he had ever done, and that he would love her, agonizingly, until the day he died.

Pressing his thumbs hard at his eyes, he finally let the sound come with the tears. A combination of anguish, frustration, and pain, an animal sound that he hadn't allowed free rein since he had sat in the prison cell so many months ago. He was letting Ruth go now, just as he was then. But this time it had to be a permanent, ultimate, unbending decision. Harry lowered his head into his hands and silently continued his ongoing talks with God.

_Please let her be all right. Please keep her safe and whole. I'll never ask another thing of you as long as I live. I will keep my promise. I'll let her find a new life, a safe life. I'll set her free._

* * *

Ruth had closed her eyes in the early hours of the morning and found some fitful rest. She tried to remember her training, _When there's no chance for escape, be calm and take the opportunity to rest, so that you'll be strong when the chance presents itself_. She imagined she had slept for about five hours. She'd stolen looks at Magritte's watch throughout yesterday to get her bearings, and now there was a light glowing outside, blurry as it was through the small window.

They hadn't let her call Harry last night, and Ruth thought that couldn't be a good sign. She was afraid it meant that she hadn't convinced them, and if that were the case, she was of no further use to them.

Ruth's fear was increasing with every minute, but it wasn't a specific fear. She didn't have enough information, really, but the glint in Juliet's eyes when she said, "we're saving you from something much, much worse," was sufficient to tell her she didn't want to find out. That, coupled with the haunted look in Harry's eyes when he talked about Zaf ... _This isn't helping_, Ruth thought, and forced herself to sit up.

Ruth pulled the blanket tightly around her to fend off the cold. She needed to get her wits about her, and she did that best when moving. She stood, taking the blanket with her, and began to walk around the perimeter of the room. Running her fingers along the wall absentmindedly, she came across a seam under the bright, white paint. Stopping, she pulled on it. Wallpaper. And now she saw what she hadn't seen before, wainscoting, and a finely-turned chair rail under the paint. Ruth ripped a small piece of the paper away, and there was a lovely, elegant pattern underneath, probably very expensive, and very Parisian.

Now she looked at the room in a different way, not as a cell, but as a bedroom, small but serviceable. Perhaps a child's room, perhaps guest quarters, or even a maid's room. She closed her eyes and re-imagined the hallway and the bath she had seen. The courtyard, once elaborately landscaped, had now fallen to seed, but the evidence was still there. And when she tried to remember any sounds from her venture outside yesterday, she realised that there were no airplanes, no cars, just the gentle chirping of birds. Ruth went to the metal door, and yes, it was a recent addition. New hinges, new bolts, probably replacing a graceful wooden door.

So perhaps this was a mansion of sorts, not a prison. Maybe one of the thousands of villas that dotted the landscape all around the suburbs of Paris. Could she still be that close? If so, she also knew that one of the most attractive features of this type of estate were the wide open spaces that surrounded them, the acres of land and vegetation that came with the property. If she could convince Magritte to let her go beyond the courtyard, to take a walk, there was a chance, a possibility, she could get away.

Ruth was still standing at the metal door when she heard keys rattling in the lock. She stepped back quickly and waited. Magritte walked in, still smiling, but with a different look, not so conciliatory, not quite as kind. Ruth felt a shiver go down her spine, and she suspected that she didn't have much time left in this place.

"Good morning. How did you sleep?" Magritte asked her.

Ruth managed to find her voice. "Better, thanks. The mattress made all the difference." Her mind was racing, her fear escalating.

Magritte didn't see the flush that had come to Ruth's cheeks, because she was motioning someone into the room with them. The man who had brought their meals before came in with the tray and set it on the table as usual, but behind him, there was another man. This one simply looked pointedly at Ruth. Her thin smile frozen on her face, Ruth felt as if he were choosing a piece of meat from a butcher's window.

She pulled the blanket around her, her arms clasped tightly across her chest to fend off her sudden and inexplicable feeling of nakedness. Ruth had to remember to breathe. There was no embarrassment in his eyes, only a chilling combination of excitement, anticipation and raw lust. And then he was gone. Magritte stood with her head out of the door and whispered to him. Ruth couldn't hear, except for the final word Magritte said. "D'accord."

_Agreed._

In that moment, Ruth knew a deal had been made. And if that dark, oily, steel-eyed young man was the one taking her, she had an inkling of what Juliet had meant by "much, much worse." Her panic began to rise, but she pushed it down, knowing that what she did from here could mean the difference between freedom or something worse than death.

Magritte motioned with her hand for Ruth to sit, and then sat across from her. Ruth's stomach was suddenly queasy, but she picked up a croissant and tore it as if she were hungry. She took a bite and suppressed her nausea, looking down until she could compose herself.

She smiled again, and looked up at the small window. "It looks beautiful outside. Sun shining?"

Magritte looked up from her eggs, "Yes, it's lovely." Then she said, rather aimlessly, "Spring days." Magritte was consumed with thoughts of her own. Sholto had given her the honour of handling the pass-off to the Redbacks, and now that the deal was done, she was trying to think how best to accomplish it.

She knew that Sholto disliked drama and noise of any kind, but also that he didn't wish to drug Ruth again. He felt it was always best for the buyer to see the full scope of the person they were purchasing rather than simply taking possession of an inert, tranquilised body. Magritte wanted to impress Sholto, and perhaps surpass Juliet in his mind. She had waited a long time for this, and wanted to make no mistakes.

So when Ruth presented the solution, Magritte couldn't believe her luck.

"I was wondering," Ruth said in her sweetest, most spaniel –like voice, "If there was any chance we could take a short walk today? Beyond the courtyard? I know it's asking a lot, but , you know that I'm going to work with you, yes? I won't go anywhere. I won't run. I don't want to."

Magritte looked up. _Of course, a pass-off in the forest. Quiet, remote, away from the house. No fuss, a short walk, and then she's gone._ She tilted her head at Ruth and smiled. "Yes, I would like that. Of course you won't run. We know that, Ruth." She took another bite of her eggs, inwardly elated. "Yes, a walk. That would be lovely."

They finished their breakfast with small-talk, the pleasantries they had used for all of yesterday. When they were finished, Magritte stood and knocked on the door. The tray was taken, and as Magritte left, she said, "In about an hour? I'll come get you, and we'll have a nice walk."

"Yes, I'll look forward to to it." Ruth heard the absurdity of her words, as if they were simply two friends going out for a stroll. But she felt hopeful, somehow. At the very least, this was activity. At the least, this was a chance.

In precisely an hour, the door opened again, and Magritte led her out. Into the courtyard as before, but then through a tall, wooden gate that led to a shadowy, wooded path. Ruth stole a look behind her, and through the thicket of trees, she could just make out the villa, large, imposing, and ivy-covered. A house straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

They walked on, slowly, until the trees began to get taller, the canopy rising high above them. Wordlessly, Ruth and Magritte threaded a path through the trees, which stood like wooden pillars. Ruth looked over at her companion, who had taken the precaution of wearing her pistol at her hip, and her hand was on it as a warning. _So much for two friends going out for a stroll_, Ruth thought.

Ruth's eyes scanned the forest, its floor thick with needles. The sun they had been seeking was barely visible through the broad overlapping of the evergreens above them. She tried to imagine herself breaking away and running, but her feet wouldn't comply. The gun at Magritte's hip was doing its job, frightening her, riveting her to the path. She looked up again, searching for a way out, and she saw something far in the distance. Two figures coming toward them. Her heart rate increased, and she realised she had walked herself right into Magritte's plan.

As they came closer, Ruth recognised the man who had looked at her earlier, and her legs began to falter. She slowed and looked at Magritte, pleading with her eyes. Ruth's voice was small, thin. "No," she said, but her companion simply took hold of her arm roughly and pulled her along.

Suddenly, there was a noise, and both of the women looked up. The two men were no longer coming toward them. They had crumpled to their knees, and two other men were now standing over them, holding guns. Magritte grabbed Ruth, and pulled her own gun, holding it to her head. But just as suddenly, Magritte's grip slackened, and the gun fell with a soft thump to the pine needles below.

Ruth whirled around as Magritte fell limply to the ground. Standing over her was Adam, smiling. "Shall I hit her again, Ruth?"

At first she couldn't believe he was really there. Then she threw herself into his arms, laughing, crying, and saying, "Oh, God, only if you want to, Adam."

* * *

As they drove to the safe house, Adam told Ruth he'd managed to find her on a hunch. Since the French Secret Services were already working on their investigation of the Redbacks, he thought he would focus on Yalta. He knew them better than anyone around him, although the French authorities had some knowledge of their mission.

What kept coming back to Adam was the memory of the large estate in the country. He thought there might be a pattern with Juliet and her aristocratic tastes, so he started looking at estates and villas.

That was no small task in Paris, and actually, he couldn't even be sure that Ruth was still _in_ Paris. But if he put himself in their place, if they wanted from Ruth what they had wanted from Ros, she would need to go back to her life quickly in order not to arouse suspicion. And that would mean she wasn't far.

His was an investigation that relied heavily on instinct, because there was so little that was concrete to go on. But Adam believed in instinct, and he followed it. He hadn't been able to save Ros. He hadn't been able to save Zaf. But he'd be damned if he'd let another officer fall into their hands without a fight, especially when that officer was Ruth.

As it turned out, there was perfect synchronicity at work. As the Parisian-based MI6 officers worked toward finding their own kidnapped agent, Adam searched online for large estates around Paris. At about midnight, the lines converged. Through the notoriously invasive Paris traffic cameras, MI6 found the car that had taken their officer the night before. And that same car was travelling south, holding two Redbacks. Six's intel told them there was a big prize for purchase, and the road south led them to a forested area that was known for its lovely, old world mansions and villas.

They followed the car and Adam tagged along, working with his laptop, as the Redbacks were tracked to the edge of the forest. Their car stopped for the night, but Adam continued his search. Somewhere in the early morning, he found it. Almost a carbon copy of the estate where Yalta was headquartered outside of London, the one he and Harry staked out, where he had switched the syringes.

Adam thought it was more than just a coincidence that this estate was on the edge of the very forest where the two Redbacks were waiting out the night, ready to pick up their prize. Along with the MI6 officers, Adam waited for the Redbacks to make a move. When they did, he was exceedingly relieved to see Ruth walking toward them.

Adam finished his story to Ruth just as they stepped into the safe house. But there was one part of the story he didn't share with her. What he didn't tell her was that early this morning, he had called Harry to keep him updated. "It's only a hunch, Harry," he'd said. "I can't be sure, but we don't have many other options. We're waiting now." Adam paused. "But I feel it. It feels right."

Harry's head was in his hands as he talked to Adam from the Grid. "Thank you, Adam. I can't tell you what this means to me."

"You don't have to, Harry. I know. We'll let you know as soon as we know anything." Harry heard Adam take a deep breath. "And Harry? I'll ask again, just to be certain. If I find her, you don't want to talk to her? Is that correct?" His voice went softer. "Even to say goodbye?"

Adam heard a sound that couldn't be defined, a ragged sigh, a sound of such pain that he almost felt it move through the phone and into his own chest. "No, Adam. No goodbye. I've made a promise, and I'm going to keep it."

So when Harry got the call he had waited for all night, it wasn't from Adam, it was from Julien. "They are at the safe house, Harry. She is well and unharmed. It was Yalta, and they hadn't touched her, but they were handing her off to the Redbacks when Adam found them. It was just in time." Julien sighed. "We didn't fare so well with our agent. The trail has gone cold, and we know from experience that the Redbacks we captured aren't likely to tell us anything. Our agent is a woman as well, and we are very fearful for her."

Harry thanked Julien and closed his mobile. He walked to the glass of scotch that he had poured earlier and took a long swallow. Now that she was safe, he felt he could seek the numbness that came with the alcohol. He closed his eyes as the warmth moved down his throat and spread through his body.

It was nearly 8 a.m., and an early riser, an analyst, was just coming through the pods. Probably not a good idea to be found here at this hour with a drink in his hand. He downed it, quickly, and got his coat. Harry needed fresh air.

He managed to get downstairs without running into anyone, for which he was grateful. He walked past the guard at the front door and stepped out into the bright late-May sunshine in front of Thames House. Harry felt himself drawn to the River, so he walked toward it, moving through the throngs of commuters, walking or driving to their jobs. He looked ahead to Lambeth Bridge and the Embankment beyond it. A normal Thursday morning in London, nothing extraordinary.

Harry walked to the water and looked over it, squinting at the sharp reflections of the morning sun on the ripples there. Everything was as it usually was. But this would always be the day that Harry's life had changed forever, and he knew it. He had sent a desperate request out for Ruth to be safe, and against the odds, that request had been mercifully answered.

She was safe, but they wouldn't be together. She would find her happiness with someone else someday, of that he was sure. He smiled sadly out at the water. Closing his eyes against the glare of the sun, Harry let Ruth go. It was the most selfless and loving thing he could do for her. It made him feel a little better about himself, and it distanced him a bit from the world that would wish to hurt someone as genuinely kind-hearted and harmless as Ruth.

She was on her way to the tranquil sands and blue waters of Cyprus. Harry had the gift of being able to imagine her there. Any time he wanted, he knew he could bring Ruth to mind. He could see her standing on the beach, the wind blowing in her hair, laughing, and imagining more colours of blue.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE**

* * *

Adam plugged in the kettle and pulled the tea down. He hadn't ever been in a French safe house before, but he was amazed at the similarity to the ones in London, as if they had been cloned and stocked by the same hospitality service. It was a bit like going to a fast-food franchise, the same in any country, standardised, homogenised, lacking in local colour, but comfortable, unremarkable, and recognisable.

Today he was very grateful for the English Breakfast tea and the familiar workings of the electric kettle. He hadn't admitted to himself, until now, how much the responsibility had weighed on him to get Ruth back. It had been two very long nights for him, and he hadn't slept yet. Adam knew he wouldn't, until he had a clear idea of what their day was to entail, and the first thing on his agenda was to find out just where they were going.

Before he could ask, Ruth had a question of her own. "Can I call Harry? Can I talk to him? I need to, Adam. Please."

Adam shook his head decisively. "It's too dangerous, Ruth. I'm under strict orders. No contact, from me, or from you. The Grid may not be secure, his mobile may not be, his car, we just don't know. We've been extremely lucky to get you back, and we're not going to push our luck." He poured the hot water into the cups and began to steep the tea.

Ruth watched, exhausted. She sat on a stool at the counter that divided the kitchen from the lounge. She still wore Harry's shirt and her jeans, and she desperately wanted a bath and a bed to sleep in. But she knew that before that happened, there were plans to be made.

"Where am I going, Adam? Can I go home now? To England?" Ruth's voice was so sad, almost a child's voice, asking for a treat that she knew was out of the question. She pressed her case anyway. "What does it matter now? I'll need a new legend. Can't I go to Liverpool, or Tweedmouth, or... " Ruth's voice trailed off, and Adam saw a tear slip down her cheek before she brushed it quickly away with the sleeve of Harry's shirt. She looked up at Adam, her eyes brimming, her mouth trembling. He walked around the bar and put his arms around her, and she cried some of the tears she had been holding in for days.

Adam held her, his eyes looking up to the ceiling. _How much are we expected to give to this Service?_ he thought. He was so weary of it all, everyone wanting, no one getting quite enough back for what they gave. He patted her shoulder and let her cry until she calmed. Finally she said, "Sorry, Adam. Sorry. I know what has to be done. I'm not going closer, I'm going further, yes?" She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and moist.

Finding a box of tissues, Adam pushed it toward her and smiled gently. He reached out to get the mugs of tea, and handed one to Ruth. "Actually, I need _you_ to tell _me_ where you're going." She looked at him with a question, her head tilted slightly, as Adam continued. "Harry said he wants me to take you ... " Adam paused, making sure he got the words exactly right. " ... to find more colours of blue."

Ruth's eyes filled again immediately, and the tissue made it there just in time. "Cyprus. P-polis, Cyprus," she said with a light hiccough. "He wants me to go to Cyprus."

Adam pulled out his mobile and pressed in a number. "I'm calling the pilot. He's waiting for orders." Adam paused as it rang, and then said, "Polis, Cyprus. Yes. 7:30? We'll be there." He closed his phone. "That will give us time to get cleaned up and catch a quick nap. Are you hungry?"

Ruth thought back, and wondered how long it had been since she had picked at her breakfast with Magritte. She turned Adam's wrist so that she could see his watch. 10:45 a.m. She was a little hungry, but was more anxious for a bath and sleep. "Maybe just a quick bite? What is there?"

Adam made a show of going through all the cupboards. "Soup, crisps, olives, biscuits, more soup, ah, cassoulet?" He held up the tin grandly. Ruth smiled weakly at him, as if to say _For breakfast?_ and he was glad to have at least gotten that small amused response. "Negative, then, on the cassoulet." He picked up a loaf of sliced wheat bread from the counter, and Ruth gave him a _maybe_ look. "Something in the fridge?" he opened the door, "Boursin cheese. Beer. Lots of beer. Eggs ... " That combination caused him to pull a face, and this time Ruth's smile widened slightly.

She took a sip of her tea, and said warmly, "Thank you, Adam. Did I thank you properly for saving my life? I'll admit I was losing hope, falling into utter despair, as I walked toward those men. What did they want with me?" Ruth stood now, and walked around to the refrigerator. She pulled out the Boursin, picked up the bread from the counter, and got a plate down from the cupboard. Pulling open a drawer, she found a knife, and walked back around to the stool.

"Redbacks. They were the ones who ... Zaf was held by them for a time ... " Adam stopped, unsure of what to tell her. He decided to err on the side of caution. "They wanted you to tell them what you know about MI5, Ruth. They're not nice people. It's just as well we got you when we did."

Ruth took a bite of bread, spread with a generous layer of the cheese. She looked at Adam under her brows, frowning. "I have a nasty feeling that's a monumental understatement. You don't need to tell me any more. I'm starting to think that the less I know about _everything_, the better." She took another bite. "The safer for me."

Adam had decided on the cassoulet after all. He opened the tin and poured it out into a bowl before putting it in the microwave. He turned to have another sip of tea, and the buzzer sounded at the front door.

Ruth started, and looked at Adam with frightened eyes. He smiled at her, and said, "I'm waiting for a courier. Your papers from Malcolm." She sighed and sat back again. While he was at the door, the microwave sounded. She walked around and pulled out the cassoulet, getting a spoon for Adam. By the time she had it set up on the bar for him, he was back with an envelope.

On his way past the refrigerator, he pulled out a beer. He put the envelope down in front of her and shrugged as he opened the bottle. He held it up to her. "Might just as well. Haven't been to sleep in two nights, my body doesn't know what bloody time it is." He walked around and sat, ravenously tucking into the cassoulet.

Ruth opened the envelope, and was taken back to Harry's safe house in London. She had opened an envelope just like this one when she was introduced to Sophie Persan. Sophie had become a dear friend, and she realised that this time, she had to let go of Ruth Evershed _and_ Sophie Persan.

She took a deep breath and pulled out the papers. She went first to the passport and opened it. There was her photo, the same as the one on Sophie's passport. She smiled, thinking that if this was going to continue to happen, she really needed to get a better photo to Malcolm. She moved her eyes down to the name, and a broad smile crossed her face. _Oh, Malcolm, so clever. Thank you_.

_Faith Benson._ A character from an obscure Elizabeth Gaskell novel, first published in London, in 1853. Not a primary character, but an important one, a kind woman who takes in the heroine of the novel, the one after whom the novel is named. The name of the book? _Ruth._ And as icing on the cake, the man Ruth loves? Henry.

She looked through the rest of the papers. Malcolm had been very thorough, and had even included a certificate of graduation with honours from a secretarial college. Ruth ran her fingers across the name, written in ornate calligraphy. _Faith R. Benson._ She looked back at the other papers, and found no middle name anywhere. So Malcolm had left her an initial for her middle name, one that she would always know stood for Ruth. _Faith Ruth Benson_. And yes, she would try to have faith. This time she said it out loud, softly, "Thank you, Malcolm."

Adam looked over at her. "I'll tell him you liked it." He had finished his meal, and was walking around to the sink. He took a last, long swallow from his beer and dropped the bottle in the bin. When he glanced up, Ruth was looking at him, her eyes looking so tired, so drained.

"Adam? When do you think I'll be able to talk to Harry? How soon? Can I send you back with a note for him? I want him to know I'm okay. How I'm feeling. He'll want to know."

Adam blinked and looked down at his mug. "He knows. He's gotten a call from MI6 in Paris." He looked back at her, remembering Harry the way he last saw him in his office. A broken, beaten man. Adam could only imagine how relieved he was when he got the news that she was safe. He said again, more quietly, "He knows, Ruth."

Ruth frowned at Adam, seeing something there in his eyes. She suddenly understood, and felt her heart clench in her chest. "Oh, God, no, Adam. He feels responsible, doesn't he? He thinks this is his fault. His office was bugged, he should have known better, he was breaking rules..." Adam looked away. He knew he was too tired to pull this off, _and women, Christ, how did they read men's eyes so easily?_

Ruth was looking intently at him now, and Adam returned her stare. She narrowed her eyes at him. "You tell him, Adam. You tell him that I said this. It's _not_ his fault. It was just ... just how things happened. And if you won't let me write it down, I'll tell you. You make sure he knows that I will love him until the day I die. And if he has some idea that letting me go is a great, noble sacrifice, you tell him that he has another bloody idea coming."

Adam couldn't help himself. He was exhausted, and she looked so... _serious_. He smiled at her, and almost laughed. "You're tougher than I thought you were, Ruth. You've just been kidnapped, held in a cell for two days and nearly lost to us, and now you're ready to take on the great and powerful Harry Pearce?" His smile faded, and he put his hand over hers on the smooth stone of the bar. "My job is to get you to Cyprus, Ruth. I don't know what happens from there."

"And what if I won't go? What if I refuse?" Her eyes were defiant and bright.

Adam sighed. He hated doing this, but it was unfolding just as Harry said it would. Harry knew Ruth even better than Adam imagined. "He says he'll meet you there, Ruth. On Cyprus. You have to go."

Her face softened, her eyes began to glisten, and Adam felt very small in his deception. She smiled, and relaxed. "Thank you, Adam. Thank you. Yes, of course he'll come." Shaking her head, she looked at Adam. "He wouldn't leave me there alone. I know that."

She took a long sip of her tea, and stood. "I need a bath so badly I can't wait another minute." She looked down at Harry's shirt, somewhat the worse for wear. "Of course I have nothing to change into. Do you think they have any clothes here?"

Adam walked toward the front hall. "Probably, but you won't need them." He picked up Ruth's carry-all, the one she had taken to Harry's and never completely unpacked. It was stuffed full of whatever Adam could get from her closet and armoire when he was at her flat. He had also grabbed what he thought she would need from the bathroom: hairbrush, toothpaste, toothbrush, shampoo and other assorted items. "Don't know if I got everything, but thought you'd appreciate whatever I could manage."

He dropped it on the bar as she smiled broadly at him, and undid the clasps. She pulled it open and was nearly overcome with the scent of sandalwood. Adam had picked up the bar of Harry's shaving soap. Ruth put her face down and inhaled deeply. She closed it up again, and took the carry-all by the handles.

As she walked by him, Ruth leant up and gave Adam a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Adam. You got just exactly what I needed."

* * *

That evening, after both had enjoyed long and sound naps, Adam and Ruth boarded the private plane for Polis at the Bourget Airport, the same airport Ruth and Harry had used when they went to Baghdad. They arrived at Paphos Airport quite late, and went straight to a small hotel, where they booked two rooms. Still needing sleep from their experiences of the last two days, Adam and Ruth said a quick goodnight.

Adam would leave Ruth there the next day. Harry didn't want any of the arrangements to originate from London, so Ruth would decide where she would live, where she would work, and what her life would be. But that would require some security, and security required money.

Just before he left in the morning, Adam handed Ruth another envelope. She opened it and gasped. Looking through the contents, she said, "Adam, there must be ... over 25,000 Euros in here. Cripes, no, there's more. What ...?"

"33,828 Euros, actually. Harry bought your house yesterday at market value, paid off the loan, and this is your equity. This was sent with your papers to the safe house, and it's your money. Harry will sell the house later and get his money back. He wanted to be sure you had enough to be comfortable, to feel safe, until you find work." Adam smiled at her. "Get that to a bank, Ruth. No stuffing it in mattresses, all right?"

She held the envelope to her chest tightly. "What's today? Friday? Yes, I'll get to a bank, straightaway." She stopped suddenly, and looked up at Adam. There was a hint of suspicion in her eyes. "This feels very final, Adam. As if I really am being dropped off on my own. Is that what's happening?"

Adam held her by the shoulders, and matched her stare. "This was an extremely close call, Ruth. The people who are looking for you are very, very dangerous. No contact, until someone contacts you. It's as serious as it can be. Find a life here, and immerse yourself fully in it. You mustn't give the Redbacks or Yalta any reason to know where you are. Please promise me that."

Ruth felt a chill run through her. "You said Harry would come here, Adam. You said that."

It took every last ounce of effort for Adam to maintain eye contact with the heartfelt, sincere look he was getting from her. "That's what he told me, Ruth." He gave her a quick hug, and then looked back at her from the door of her hotel room. "You take care."

Ruth watched the door close behind him, and sat down heavily on the end of the bed. She was still hugging the envelope with the money to her chest. She let it go and set it beside her, imagining Adam at the door again, looking just the way he had before he walked through it.

And hard as she tried, she couldn't shake the feeling that it was the last time she would ever see Adam Carter.

* * *

Harry sat looking at the fire he had just made, and put his feet up on the table in front of him. He closed his eyes and remembered. Just three days ago she had been here next to him, warm in the curve of his arm, laughing, crying, making plans for a summer wedding.

Tonight, Scarlet was at his feet and Fidget was curled on the pillow. Phoebe had found Harry's lap, and after a few painful digs at his thighs, had settled into a doze.

Harry clicked the button on the recorder next to him, the one Malcolm had given him for his diary. He couldn't write to her, he couldn't call her, but no one could stop him from speaking his heart to her.

"My dearest Ruth." He clicked the recorder off, feeling the tears starting. He leant forward, picked up his glass of scotch, and took a long, warm swallow. Leaning back again, he exhaled loudly and pushed the button once more.

"_My dearest Ruth, _

_You are here with me. I close my eyes and here you are, at our dinner table, in front of the fire, in our bed. Perhaps that's the answer, to never open my eyes. To never face the reality that you're there, far away, and I'm here, in small pieces, scattered randomly throughout what used to be my life._

_I'm on the sofa, my love, where you asked me that question that will now never leave me: 'What would you do if I weren't in your life?' Did you know, somehow? In your mysterious, psychic, wonderful Ruth way, were you tapping into what was to come?_

_What do I do now that you're not in my life? I'm answering that question for myself in every second that passes, my Ruth. And the answer is different for each of those seconds. Sometimes I spend them on things that are constructive, like immersing myself in the minutiae of work. Sometimes I will admit I feel like stabbing the walls with scissors. And a frighteningly large number of those seconds are spent fighting inwardly, physically restraining myself from getting on a plane and coming to you._

_But if I did that, if I led them to you, if I spent another second feeling as I did for those terrible hours, wondering if you were lost, or being hurt, or tortured? That would be worse than never again holding you, never again feeling your lips ... "_

Harry stopped, and clicked off the recorder while he composed himself. Another long sip of scotch, another deep breath, and he continued.

"_I have to believe you understand. You always understood me, better than I understood myself. For my own sanity, I have to believe that you understand why I'm doing this, how much it's hurting me, and why I can never see you again._

_So I'm closing my eyes now, and there is your beautiful, pale face looking at me, saying, 'Hello, Harry.' And I gaze back at you, looking serious and grave and guilty as hell, and say, 'Hello, my love.' And I imagine you putting a hand on my cheek and smiling, and saying, 'Yes, I do understand.' _

_That's how I'm getting through this second. Just as I said, they're all different. Is it working? I'll keep you posted._

_And now, I think I'll imagine you getting up and going to our bed, with me following close behind. I will hold you, spooned and warm in my arms, and we'll sleep._

_I'll love you forever, my Ruth. Every last second of forever._

_Your faithful,_

_Harry"_

He pushed the button to stop the recorder. The fire was still going, and it seemed a shame to waste it, so Harry pulled the throw from the arm of the sofa and wrapped it round him as he laid his head on the pillow. He told himself it was a shame to waste the heat, but the honest truth was that he couldn't bear to get into their bed alone tonight.

Phoebe found her way to the warm spot behind his bent legs, and Fidget curled in with her. Harry watched the fire as it licked and danced, until he finally fell into the welcome oblivion of sleep.

* * *

_**xx**_

_**Still not the end of the story.**_

**_Part Three to come soon._**

**_Thanks for reading._**

**_xx_**


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